In the Pond (15 page)

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.

S
EEING 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.

What a bizarre idea, Bin thought. Even if Yang lorded over this commune and his flunkies could do whatever they liked here, they could hardly find their bearings in Beijing, to say nothing of abducting others. Yet Meilan’s fear proved her love for him, so he was pleased.

Though having planned to go to work that morning, Bin was so exhausted that he soon fell asleep. His wife didn’t wake him when she left for work; he snored nonstop for five hours.

Toward noon, when he woke, a note from Secretary Liu was lying beside him, saying that if Bin had been struck by diarrhea, as the medical certificate indicated, he should have been bedridden, unable to fool around in the county town, fanning up evil winds. Apparently he
was well and didn’t have to go to the latrine incessantly, so Liu ordered him to show up at work without delay.

Bin was too sleepy to worry about the note, which was dated the day before. He resumed snoring, his palm on his daughter’s pillow.

During her lunch break, Meilan came back and cooked for Bin. Tired out, he didn’t want to eat the dough-drop soup, and he told her he had to go to the plant.

Before leaving, he let her do cupping on him. She smeared a few drops of cold water on the hollow below his Adam’s apple, lighted a scrap of paper with a match, dropped the fire into an empty jam jar, and pressed the “cup” tightly on the wet spot. In a few seconds a swelling rose inside the jar. He gave her a toothy grin, hoping she hadn’t burned him.

“It’s bloody dark,” she said, referring to the swelling.

He couldn’t speak, because the jar tightened his throat. He nodded at her twice.

After the cupping, he pulled on a low-necked T-shirt, so that the round patch on his throat was fully visible, like a gigantic birthmark. This would convince others of his illness, if not the leaders, who would turn a blind eye to his condition anyway. Examining the purple patch with a pocket mirror, Bin believed the treatment was timely. He obviously had too much poisonous fire in him and needed it to be sucked out. He put away the mirror and set off for the plant.

When Bin arrived at Maintenance, Hsiao greeted him,
waving a pair of greasy gloves, and told him bluntly, “The leaders think the medical certificate is a fake. They want to have these days deducted from your wages.” Hsiao’s tone, however, wavered as he noticed Bin’s sick face and the dark patch on his throat.

Anger surged in Bin, but he didn’t show it. He merely said, “Damn their mothers.”

Hsiao assigned him to go to the lab and repair a ventilator. On his way there, Bin was wondering whether he should drop in on the leaders. For the three days’ absence he might lose a little more than four yuan, but he needed the money badly, since he had already made up his mind to repay Jiang Ping for the fare. Besides, the deduction would hurt his name; he couldn’t afford to let the whole plant think of him as a malingerer. He was certain that the leaders would publicize this and make his illness look like it came from mental or moral deterioration. There was also a strategic concern here. He was unsure whether or not the leaders knew of his trip; therefore he felt he should go and find out. Without entering a tiger’s den, one couldn’t catch tiger cubs. Yes, he ought to meet them.

Before he turned to the office building, Bin saw Secretary Liu coming out of the garage, with an umbrella under his arm. So Bin went up to him and asked why the leaders refused to acknowledge the sick-leave certificate. Liu said there was no Doctor Sun in the County Central Hospital and Bin had made up the whole thing.

“What?” Bin cried. “You have called the hospital to check on it, haven’t you?”

“It’s unnecessary.” Liu waved his hand as though chasing a mosquito. “I tell you what, people here don’t go to the Central Hospital for a sick-leave note. If you were really sick, you wouldn’t have been able to move around in the county town. Now, tell me what you did there. Why didn’t you stay in bed at home? You must confess everything first.”

“I’ll answer that after you tell me whether you’re positive there’s no Doctor Sun in the hospital. If you haven’t checked, you’d better shut up.”

Liu was taken aback by Bin’s sharp tone of voice. “All right, describe to me what he looks like,” he said and closed his eyes, ready to visualize Doctor Sun.

Bin’s face went blank because he had never met the doctor; his nose was twitching while his mouth spread sideways.

Staring at Bin, Liu chuckled and said, “You aren’t good at anything, you’re not even a good liar. Go home and write out a confession of what you’ve been doing these days. Not until—”

“Damn it!” Bin cried, his senses restored at last. “Doctor Sun has big, dark eyes. I didn’t see his face because he had on a large gauze mask. You must call the hospital and talk with him personally.” Bin supposed Doctor Sun’s eyes were similar to his nephew Song’s.

Liu stopped chuckling and shifted his weight to the left leg. He said, “Okay, write out your confession and we may give you the pay.”

“You give me the pay? This plant doesn’t belong to you. It’s our country’s. The pay is given to me by the Party and the people. You have no right to take it away from me. I was sick and had diarrhea, couldn’t move. No, I have nothing to confess.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

“If you take a fen off my pay, my wife and I will visit your home every evening.” Bin turned and walked away with a gleeful face.

For a whole day Bin’s ears echoes with Tu Fu’s lines inscribed on a painting of a grand eagle:

Time and again, a large eagle emerged in his mind’s eye, circling in the sky and catching sparrows, jays, swallows, titmice. The air was full of ecstatic cries and pitiful noises.

The poetry reminded him of the book of bird paintings published by Master Chen Fan, a distinguished professor in the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing. Bin usually copied the book once a year as a part of his apprenticeship, but he had not done it for two years.

After supper, he moved to his corner in the room and
prepared to practice eagle painting. Meilan was listening to the historical serial
The Female Generals of the Yang Clan
, broadcast by Radio Liaoning, while Shanshan was playing with pocket magnifying glass on the floor. Bin spread out a large sheet of paper, opened the model book, and began to apply the brush.

For some reason he felt his wrist stiffen; the brush wandered without any sense of destiny. The eagle’s broad wings turned out disproportionate, too large for its body and lacking the spirit of the model painting. He tore the sheet and threw it into the basket for kindling. He painted another piece, which came out similarly; the eagle’s neck stretched up, like a giraffe’s.

Bin was bewildered by the sudden change and thought it must have been caused by the noise from the radio. He wanted to tell Meilan to turn it off, but seeing her so engrossed in the Chinese troops pressing their attack against the northern barbarians, he changed his mind. Putting away the model paintings, he began to practice calligraphy by copying a stone rubbing. To his dismay, the brush seemed to have its own will, determined to disobey its master. The strokes on the paper lacked the vigorous movement of swords and spears, and a few even stretched like bands of black cloth waving in the breeze. Every word was devoid of life; some didn’t stand upright and looked like piles of sticks. The characters just lay dead on the paper. Bin gave a sigh and put down the brush.

With his head hanging, he tried to think why all of a
sudden he couldn’t harness the brush any longer. He felt as though something blocked his windpipe. One obvious cause of the relapse could have been that he hadn’t worked hard on his arts these months but had spent too much time fighting those thugs. His heart was aching when a short poem on the methodology of study by a well-beloved octogenarian revolutionary echoed in his ears: