by Ha Jin
Lin was speechless and closed his eyes as though suffering a fit of vertigo. He regretted having made the remark, but he did not follow her out. He wiped the sweat off his face with his cap. After picking up his shirt and the other paddle and turning off the lights, he went back to his dormitory alone.
Later he promised Manna that he wouldn’t banter about the subject again.
5
It happened that Commissar Wei was going to stay for a night at Muji City on his way to the border, where he was to negotiate with the Russians for the sovereign rights to a small fortress. The fortress, constructed by the Japanese Guandong Army in the 1930s, was intersected by the boundary line between China and the Soviet Union, and both countries now claimed it. Skirmishes had broken out when soldiers of both sides ran into each other at the fortress, but so far no guns had been fired. Instead, the patrols had used rocks, sticks, and steel whips to strike each other, because neither the Russians nor the Chinese wanted to open fire first—to be blamed for violating the cease-fire agreement.
Before departing for the border, Commissar Wei had the hospital informed that he would be delighted to meet Manna Wu on Tuesday evening at the army’s hotel in Muji City. The hospital leaders told Manna to get ready as soon as possible, since it was already Monday.
She was granted leave the next day. Because she would have to wear her uniform, there wasn’t much to prepare. All she did was take a hot bath in the bathhouse and lie in bed for almost the whole afternoon, trying to get some sleep. She felt nervous, as if she were going to sit for the exam on the history of international proletarian revolutions that the hospital gave its staff annually. Yet there was neither the pounding of the heart nor the tightening of the chest as she had experienced long ago with Mai Dong and Lin Kong.
Despite making an effort to rest, she could not set her mind at ease, because she didn’t know how she would get downtown in the evening after the bus service had stopped. She could walk but it would take at least an hour, and she might be sweating on arrival at the hotel. She didn’t know how to ride a bicycle. If only she had dared to ask the leaders to assign an automobile to drive her there. She regretted not having listened to Lin the previous summer when he had offered to teach her how to bicycle.
After dinner, she put on a pair of patent-leather sandals. They were the only thing she could add to the uniform, but the shoes did make her appear taller and gave a touch of elegance to her carriage. She remembered that when she was a little girl, she had often dreamed of wearing a flowered blouse, fluffy and flossy, which made her look like a butterfly fairy and enabled her to soar into the clouds whenever she ordered, “Fly.” In her heart of hearts she still cared very much for colorful clothes, though she understood it was inappropriate to wear them at her age.
She was wondering whether she should set out on foot, wearing a pair of sneakers and carrying the sandals in her satchel so that she could wear them for the meeting. As she was brushing her teeth, a jeep with a large fog light on its front arrived. The leaders had made arrangements for her transportation, but they hadn’t told her.
With Manna on board, the jeep rolled out of the front gate and turned townward. The army hotel was at the west end of Glory Street, an area that used to be a red-light district. It occupied a black brick building that fifty years ago had been a Japanese brothel whose owner wouldn’t take Russian rubles, which were in circulation together with Chinese yuan at the time. He would charge a Chinese customer double the price, even though most of the prostitutes were Korean women pretending to be Japanese ladies. It was the rush hour, and the street was crowded with bicycles. At a crossroads a beefy policeman was shouting at the cyclers through a megaphone and wielding a white zebra-striped truncheon to direct the traffic. The smell of roast mutton and stewed turnip hovered in the air.
The jeep dropped Manna at the front entrance to the hotel and pulled away. For a moment she worried about how to return to the hospital, then she dismissed the thought, feeling certain she could walk back. She wasn’t afraid of dark streets, though the sandals might not give her an easy time. A soldier at the front desk told her that the commissar was expecting her in Suite 6 on the second floor. She thanked him and turned to the stairs. Somehow she felt unusually calm.
An orderly answered the door and led her into the living room. She was struck by his young face, his upper lip not downy yet. He couldn’t be older than sixteen. After pouring her a cup of jasmine tea, he said, “Commissar Wei will be with you in a minute.” Then he quietly withdrew.
Sitting on a sofa with her legs crossed at the knees, she looked up at the whitewashed wall, on which hung a portrait of Chairman Mao—a tall, thirtyish man in a blue cotton robe and with an umbrella under his arm, trudging up a mountain trail toward a coal mine to mobilize workers. She looked around and noticed that the room was much smaller than a living room in a modern hotel. Then she heard a noise and turned. In came a tall man, smiling and nodding as he walked up to her.
“You must be Comrade Manna Wu,” he said and stretched out his hand.
She stood up and said, “Yes.” They shook hands; his palm was as soft as though gloved in silk.
He told her, “I’m Guohong Wei. Very happy to see you. Sit down please.”
The commissar’s natural manners put her at ease. After he sat down, he began asking about her work and the city. He made no inquiries about her family and hometown. She realized that he must have read her file and knew she had grown up as an orphan. Wearing a white shirt, he looked more like a professor than an officer, smiling kindly all the time. Half of his hair was gray, and his face was round and flabby, somewhat incongruous on his large, sturdy body. She noticed one of his eyes was larger than the other one. He reminded her of a gentle giant cat.
Though she dared not ask any questions and had to answer him all the while, she didn’t feel uncomfortable with this man, who was amiable, without any superior airs. More amazing, he listened to her attentively and nodded his head now and then. Never had she met a man who was such a good listener. She couldn’t help wondering why he and his wife had gotten divorced. It seemed he must have been a considerate husband.
He took out a gilt cigarette case from his pocket and asked, “May I?”
She was surprised because no man had ever been so polite to her. “Of course. I like the smell of tobacco.” She told him the truth. In fact she herself would smoke one or two cigarettes when she was depressed. In her bedside cupboard there was always a pack, which would last a year.
“Do you smoke?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“That means you smoke?”
“No . . . yes,” she said, hesitating over her words. “I smoke only on some occasions.” His cigarette gave off a minty, sweetish scent. She wondered what brand he was smoking.
He said, “I see, you smoke when you are bored?”
“Yes, a few times a year.”
“What can you do for fun in the hospital?”
“I go to the movies sometimes and also read magazines.”
“Do you like reading books?”
“I read books sometimes.”
“What have you read lately?” He flicked the burned tip of the cigarette over an ashtray. His hand was large and pinkish, with swollen veins.
The question caught her off guard. For a moment she didn’t know how to answer, because she hadn’t read a book from cover to cover in recent years. Then she remembered those novels from Lin’s library she had looked through long ago. She managed to reply, “I don’t read a lot now, I’m too busy. But I used to read fiction.”
“Such as?”
“Red Crag, And Quiet Flows the Don, Anna Karenina, The Vanguards . . .” She paused and regretted having blurted out those titles, particularly the two Russian novels, which were no longer popular and probably unhealthy or pernicious.
“Good, those are excellent books.” His eyes brightened as a thrill surged in his voice. “I can see you have good taste. I wish more people read tho
se great Russian novels nowadays. How I used to devour them when I was a young man.”
She was pleased by his praise, but too shy to say more.
“Let me show you what I’ve been reading.” He turned and drew a yellowish book from his leather briefcase. “Have you heard of Leaves of Grass?” He raised the book to display the front cover, on which a lean foreign man in a tilted hat stood with one arm akimbo, the hand almost invisible, while his other hand was in his trouser pocket, as though he were trying to conceal his hands.
“No, I’ve never heard of it. Who wrote it?”
“Walt Whitman, an American poet. This is a remarkable book of poetry, and the poems are so robust and brave they include everything. In a way they form a universe. I’ve read this book four times.”
With amazement she looked at his animated face.
He realized he had gotten carried away by his enthusiasm and added, “Of course it was written last century when American capitalism was still developing. In fact the optimism in the poetry reflects the confidence and progress of the time. Nowadays no American poet can write like this. They have all degenerated in the rotten capitalist society, without the rising spirit anymore.”
She was impressed by his knowledge and eloquence, although she didn’t understand his view completely. “I’ll go to the City Library and see if I can find a copy,” she said.
“No, they may not have it. I got this copy twenty years ago, from the translator himself. He was my teacher at Nankai University when I was a student.”
“You studied English?”
“No, I majored in philosophy and minored in Chinese literature. My teacher knew English well because he had been educated in a missionary school. He was a well-read man, a true scholar, but he died of pneumonia in 1957. Perhaps it was good for him to die young. With his problematic family background, he could hardly have escaped becoming a target for political movements.” The commissar’s face turned grave and he kept his head low, as though recollecting something.
“So this is a rare book?” Manna said a moment later.
“Not exactly.” His face turned vivacious again. “In some university libraries you probably can find a copy, but it has been out of print since the early fifties.”
“I see.”
“How about this? I’ll lend you the book for a month. After you read it, you tell me what you think of it. Would you like to do that?”
“Sure, I’ll be glad to read it.”
She took the book from him. Though she agreed, a shade of doubt came over her mind because she was uncertain whether she could understand the poems, not to mention report to him her appreciation of them. She might make a fool of herself.
As she was putting the book into her satchel, the orderly stepped in and announced, “The car is ready, sir.”
“Would you like to go to the movies with us, Comrade Manna Wu?” asked the commissar.
Hesitating for a moment, she said, “Yes, I’ll be happy to if I haven’t seen it.”
“Have you seen The Flower Girl?”
“No.”
“Neither have I. It was made by North Korea. Come along with us, I’ve heard it’s very good.”
Together they went out. At the front entrance to the hotel, a young officer was waiting for them beside a cream-colored Volga sedan. Commissar Wei introduced him to Manna. “This is Comrade Geng Yang, from the Third Border Division.”
“Very glad to meet you. I’m Manna Wu.” She held out her hand.
As they were shaking hands, she almost cried out—the officer’s hand was so powerful that it felt like a vise gripping her fingers, though he apparently didn’t notice her wince. He was a stern-faced man, not very tall but of heavy build. He held his body straight, a dark-reddish belt cinching up his jacket. At his flank he wore a 1959 pistol, which was much smaller than those earlier Russian models. Seven squat bullets were sheathed on the flap of his holster.
They all got into the car, including the orderly. The movie was to be shown in the Workers’ Cultural Palace, which was just a mile away.
The theater was almost full. As they were walking to their seats, Manna noticed several of her colleagues sitting among the audience and turning their eyes toward her. Haiyan was there, talking in different directions. At the sight of Manna, she stood up and signaled that she should join her. Manna waved back and shook her head, reddening a little.
Before they reached their seats, a fat official in a blue Mao suit appeared and stretched out both hands to the commissar, saying in a booming voice, “How are you, Old Wei? How I miss you!”
Commissar Wei looked startled, then smiled. “I’m well. How about you, Old Zhao?” he said delightedly.
“Fine, fine,” the man said.
“Please join us.”
The two men were still holding each other’s hands while walking toward Row 14, talking about the condition of the municipal Party secretary, who had just broken his leg on a fishing trip. Manna recognized the official, who was a vice-major of Muji City.
They all took their seats. On her right sat the commissar and the vice-mayor; on her left were seated Geng Yang and the orderly. A few minutes later the lights went off and the movie started. Commissar Wei dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the terrazzo floor and stamped it out.
The movie told a sad story about a poor Korean family. Strange to say, it had almost no plot. A little girl was eager to have a fresh chestnut, so she went under a large tree, on which two boys, whose father was the richest landowner in the village, were plucking nuts and throwing them down at the children in rags. One of the brothers aimed at the poor girl and hit her with a thorny nut, which injured her eyeball. Then her elder sister had to sell flowers on the streets to support the blind girl and the family. The sisters went on weeping from the beginning of the movie until the very end. Their tears had a tremendous impact on the audience. As the girls cried on screen, many people in the theater could not hold back their tears.
Manna heard people sobbing and sniveling around her. Their weeping was so contagious that soon almost everybody in the theater began to mist up. Manna couldn’t keep her tears back, but she didn’t raise her hand to wipe them, just letting them trickle down her face. On her right, Commissar Wei dabbed his eyes again and again with a handkerchief, while the vice-mayor lowered his head sobbing and at times gasping for breath. Commissar Wei squeezed her hand and whispered, “I’m really sorry about this.”
“It’s a good movie,” she said earnestly.
Then she noticed that Geng Yang on her left didn’t show any emotion. Unlike others, he was sitting stock-still, making no noise at all. Doesn’t he feel sad? she wondered. Time and again, out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed his stony face, which looked distant and detached. He seemed aware of her observation and exhaled a sigh, which betrayed more impatience than sadness.
At long last the movie was over and all lights came on. Many people had red eyes, but nobody looked ashamed. Some were still wiping their faces and blowing their noses with grimy handkerchiefs or scraps of newspaper. “Comrade Manna Wu,” the commissar said in a miserable voice, “I didn’t know it was such a sad picture. Otherwise I wouldn’t have invited you.”
“It was good and I was very touched.”
“I have to stay with Old Zhao for a while. Do you mind if I let Comrade Geng Yang take you back to the hospital?”
“No, not at all.”
“Please write to me and tell me what you think of Leaves of Grass, will you?”
“Yes, I will.”
Commissar Wei shook her hand and said good-bye. He gave instructions to Geng Yang, then moved away to join the vice-mayor.
The Volga was waiting for them in front of the building. They got into the car, which started heading north toward the hospital. Because the night had grown quiet, Manna noticed how little noise the car made. Only a small whirring sound could be heard as they drove along the asphalt road partly sheltered by sycamore leaves. The chauffeur had also seen the movie j
ust now, and he was so affected by it that he began talking to the two passengers. “What a sad picture!” he said.
Manna entered into conversation with him, but meanwhile Geng Yang, seated in the front, didn’t say a word. She was curious and wondered why he was so cold. “Geng Yang, what did you think of the movie?” she asked.
“It was all right.”
“So you were not moved by it?”
“Actually not.”
“Why not? Everybody was crying in the theater. Why were you so calm?”
“I don’t cry. I’ve seen things more terrible than that.”
The chauffeur seemed irritated by his answer and said, “Tell us what you’ve seen.”
“Oh, I’ve seen a lot.”
“Like what?”
“For instance, last fall we dug a large vegetable cellar. As we were laying bricks to build its wall, a landslip happened and buried twelve men in the pit. In less than a second they all disappeared from sight, buried right under my nose. When we dug them out, nine men had no breath left in them. Then their parents came to my battalion from different provinces. You should’ve seen how they cried their hearts out; it twisted my entrails to hear them. But I had to remain coolheaded in order to maintain discipline among my men. One by one I turned down the parents’ unreasonable demands, even though they called me names and made terrible scenes. If you were on the front, you’d see deaths and injuries quite often and grow used to them. So many men die in accidents; a man’s life is worth nothing. In military exercises there are casualties all the time.”
As he was talking, the car rolled to a stop. Both he and Manna got off, but instead of holding out her hand to him, she just waved good-bye.
She turned and walked away toward the dormitory house, feeling his eyes following her for a long time. Then came the sound of the car door being shut, and the Volga pulled away quietly. To some extent she found Geng Yang interesting; he was so manly and so different from the others.
6
