Ocean of Words (24 page)

“I turned the paper up and down, left and right, but couldn’t figure out the meaning. I shouted to the whole company, ‘Who can read?’ Nobody answered. In fact, only the Party secretary could read, but we had lost him. You can imagine how outraged I was. We were all blind with good eyes! I beat my head with my fists and couldn’t stop cursing. Grabbing the messenger’s throat, I yelled, ‘If you don’t tell me what the message is, I’ll shoot you in the eye!’

“The platoon leaders saved the boy’s life. They told me it wasn’t his fault; he couldn’t read either. And a messenger never knew the contents of a message, because if he was caught by the enemy they could make him tell them what he knew. Usually, he was ordered to swallow the message before it fell into the enemy’s hands.

“What should we do now? We had no idea where our army was, although we had been told that if we retreated we should go to Maliang Village. That was twenty
li
away in the north. Racking our brains together, we figured there could be only two meanings in the message; one was to stay and the other to retreat, but we couldn’t decide which was the one. If the message said to stay but we retreated, then the next day, when our troops passed the mountain without covering fire, there would be heavy casualties and I would be shot by the higher-ups. If the message said to retreat but we stayed, we merely took a risk. That meant to fight more battles or perhaps lose contact with our army for some time afterwards. After weighing the advantages and disadvantages, I decided to stay and told my men to sleep so we could fight the next day. Tired out, we all slept like dead pigs.”

Zhou almost laughed, but he restrained himself. Liang went on, “At about five in the morning, the enemy began
shelling us. We hadn’t expected they would use heavy artillery. The day before they had only launched some mortar shells. Within a minute, rocks, machine guns, arms and legs, branches and trunks of trees were flying everywhere. I heard bugles buzzing on all sides below. I knew the enemy had surrounded us and was charging. At least two thirds of my men were already wiped out by the artillery — there was no way to fight such a battle. I shouted, ‘Run for your lives, brothers!’ and led my orderly and a dozen men running away from the hilltop. The enemy was climbing all around. Machine guns were cracking. We had only a few pistols with us — no way to fight back. We were just scrambling for our lives. A shell exploded at our rear and killed seven of the men following me. My left arm was smashed. These two fingers were cut off by a piece of shrapnel from that shell.” Liang raised his crippled hand to the level of his collarbone. “Our regiment was at Maliang Village when we arrived. Regimental Commander Hsiao came and slapped my face while the medical staff were preparing to saw my arm off. I didn’t feel anything; I almost blacked out. Later I was told that the words in the message were ‘Retreat immediately.’ If I hadn’t lost this arm, Commander Hsiao would’ve finished me off on the spot. The whole company and twenty-two heavy machine guns, half the machine guns our regiment had, were all gone. Commander Hsiao punished me by making me a groom for the Regimental Staff. I took care of horses for six years. You see, Little Zhou, just two small words, each of them cost sixty lives. Sixty lives! It’s a bloody lesson, a bloody lesson!” Liang shook his gray head and drank up the tea.

“Director Liang, I will always remember this lesson.” Zhou was moved. “I understand now why you want us to study hard.”

“Yes, you’re a good young man, and you know the value of
books and knowledge. To carry out the revolution we must have literacy and knowledge first.”

“Yes, we must.”

“All right, it’s getting late. I must go. Stay as long as you want. Remember, come and study every day. Never give up. A young man must have a high aspiration and then pursue it.”

From then on, Zhou spent more time studying in the room. In the morning, when he was supposed to sleep, he would doze for only an hour and then read for three hours downstairs. His comrades wondered why his bed was empty every morning. When they asked where he had been, he said that Director Liang had work for him to do and that if they needed him, just give the Liangs a ring. Of course, none of them dared go down to check or call the director’s home.

Now the “study” was clean and more furnished. The floor was mopped every day. On the desk sat a cup and a thermos bottle always filled with boiled water. Liang’s orderly took care of that. Occasionally, the director would come and join Zhou in the evenings. He wanted Zhou to tell him the stories in
The Three Kingdoms
, which in fact Liang knew quite well, for he had heard them time and again for decades. Among the five generals in the classic, he adored Guan Yu, because Guan had both bravery and strategy. After
The Three Kingdoms
, they talked of
All Men Are Brothers
. Liang had Zhou tell him the stories of those outlaw heroes, which Liang actually knew by heart; he was just fond of listening to them. Whenever a battle took a sudden turn, he would give a hearty laugh. Somehow Zhou felt the old man looked younger during these evenings — pink patches would appear on his sallow cheeks after they had sat together for an hour.

Naturally Zhou became an enigma to his comrades, who
were eager to figure out what he did downstairs. One afternoon Chief Huang had a talk with Zhou. He asked, “Why do you go to Director Liang’s home so often, Young Zhou?”

“I work for him.” Zhou would never reveal that he studied downstairs, because the chief could easily find a way to keep him busy at the station.

“What work exactly?”

“Sometimes little chores, and sometimes he wants me to read out Chairman Mao’s works and newspaper to him.”

“Really? He studies every day?”

“Yes, he studies hard.”

“How can you make me believe you?”

“Chief Huang, if you don’t believe me, go ask him yourself.” Zhou knew the chief dared not make a peep before the director. Huang had better keep himself away from Liang, or the old man would curse his ancestors of eight generations.

“No, it’s unnecessary. Zhou Wen, you know I’m not interested in what you do downstairs. It’s Secretary Si Ma Lin who asked me about what’s going on. I have no idea how he came to know you often stay in Director Liang’s home.”

“Thanks for telling me that, Chief Huang. Please tell Secretary Si Ma that Director Liang wants me to work for him.”

After that, the chief never bothered Zhou again, but Zhou’s fellow comrades didn’t stop showing their curiosity. They even searched through his suitcase and turned up his mattress to see what he had hidden from them. Zhou realized how lucky it was that he had put his
Ocean of Words
downstairs beforehand. They kept asking him questions. One would ask, “How did you get so close to Director Liang?” Another, “Does he pay you as his secretary?” Another would sigh and say, “What a pity Old Liang doesn’t have a daughter!”

It was true Director Liang had only three sons. The eldest son was an officer in Nanjing Military Region; the second worked as an engineer at an ordnance factory in Harbin; his youngest son, Liang Bin, was a middle school student at home. The boy, tall and burly, was a wonderful soccer player. One afternoon during their break from the telegraphic training, Zhou Wen, Zhang Jun, and Gu Wan were playing soccer in the yard behind the church when Liang Bin came by. Bin put down his satchel, hooked up the ball with his instep, and began juggling it on his feet, then on his head, on his shoulders, on his knees — every part of his body seemed to have a spring. He went on doing this for a good three minutes without letting the ball touch the ground. The soldiers were all impressed and asked the boy why he didn’t play for the Provincial Juvenile Team.

“They’ve asked me many times,” Bin said, “but I never dare play for them.”

“Why?” Gu asked.

“If I did, my dad would break my legs. He wants me to study.” He picked up his satchel and hurried home.

Both Zhang and Gu said Director Liang was a fool and shouldn’t ruin his son’s future that way. Zhou understood why, but he didn’t tell them, uncertain if Director Liang would like other soldiers to know his story, which was profound indeed but not very glorious.

Every day the boy had to return home immediately after school, to study. One evening Zhou overheard Director Liang criticizing his son. “Zhou Wen read
The Three Kingdoms
under the road lamp. You have everything here, your own lamp, your own books, your own desk, and your own room. What you lack is your own strong will. Your mother has spoiled you. Come on, work on the geometry problems. I’ll give you a big gift at the Spring Festival if you study hard.”

“Will you allow me to join the soccer team?”

“No, you study.”

A few days later, Director Liang asked Zhou to teach his son, saying that Zhou was the most knowledgeable man he had ever met and that he trusted him as a young scholar. Zhou agreed to try his best. Then Liang pulled a dog-eared book out of his pocket. “Teach him this,” he said. It was a copy of
The Three-Character Scripture
.

Zhou was surprised, not having expected the officer wanted him to teach his son classical Chinese, which Zhou had merely taught himself a little. Where did Liang get this small book? Zhou had heard of the scripture but never seen a copy. Why did a revolutionary officer like Liang want his son to study such a feudal book? Zhou dared not ask and kept the question to himself. Neither did he ever mention the scripture to his comrades. Instead he told them that Director Liang ordered him to teach his son Chairman Mao’s
On Practice
, a booklet Zhou knew well enough to talk about in their political studies. Since none of his comrades understood the Chairman’s theory, they believed what Zhou told them, and they were impressed by his comments when they studied together.

As his demobilization drew near, Zhou worried desperately and kept asking himself, What will you do now? Without the Party membership you won’t get a good job at home, but how can you join the Party before leaving the army? There are only five weeks left. If you can’t make it by the New Year, you’ll never be able to in the future. Even if you give the dictionary to Secretary Si Ma now, it’s already too late. Too late to do anything. But you can’t simply sit back waiting for the end; you must do something. There must be a way to bring him around. How?

After thinking of the matter for three days, he decided to talk to Director Liang. One evening, as soon as Zhou sat down in the room, the old man rushed in with snowflakes
on his felt hat. “Little Zhou,” he said in a thick voice, “I came to you for help.”

“How can I help?” Zhou stood up.

“Here, here is Marx’s book.” Liang put his fur mitten on the desk and pulled a copy of
Manifesto of the Communist Party
out of it. “This winter we divisional leaders are studying this little book. Vice Commissar Hou gave the first lecture this afternoon. I don’t understand what he said at all. It wasn’t a good lecture. Maybe he doesn’t understand Marx either.”

“I hope I can help.”

“For example,” Liang said, putting the book on the desk and turning a few pages, “here, listen: ‘An apparition — an apparition of Communism — has wandered throughout Europe.’ Old Hou said an apparition is a ‘spook.’ Europe was full of spooks. I wonder if it’s true. What’s an ‘apparition,’ do you know?”

“Let’s see what it means exactly.” Zhou took his
Ocean of Words
out of the drawer and began to turn the pages.

“This must be a treasure book, having all the rare characters in it,” Liang said, standing closer to watch Zhou searching for the word.

“Here it is.” Zhou lifted the dictionary and read out the definition: “ ‘Apparition — specter, ghost, spiritual appearance.’ ”

“See, no ‘spook’ at all.”

“ ‘Spook’ may not be completely wrong for ‘apparition,’ but it’s too low a word.”

“You’re right. Good. Tomorrow I’ll tell Old Hou to drop his ‘spook.’ By the way, I still don’t understand why Marx calls Communism ‘an operation.’ Isn’t Communism a good ideal?”

Zhou almost laughed out loud at Liang’s mispronunciation, but controlled himself and said, “Marx must be ironic here, because the bourgeoisie takes the Communists as poisonous
snakes and wild beasts — something like an apparition.”

“That’s right.” Liang slapped his paunch, smiling and shaking his head. “You see, Little Zhou, my mind always goes straight and never makes turns. You’re a smart young man. I regret I didn’t meet you earlier.”

Here came Zhou’s chance. He said, “But we can’t be together for long, because I’ll leave for home soon. I’m sure I will miss you and this room.”

“What? You mean you’ll be discharged?”

“Yes.”

“Why do they want a good soldier like you to go?”

Zhou told the truth. “I want to leave the army myself, because my old father is in poor health.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you can’t stay longer.”

“I will always be grateful to you.”

“Anything I can do for you before you leave?”

“One thing, though I don’t know if it’s right to mention.”

“Just say it. I hate men who mince words. Speak up. Let’s see if this old man can be helpful.” Liang sat down on the sofa.

Zhou pulled over the chair and sat on it. “I’m not a Party member yet. It’s shameful.”

“Why? Do you know why they haven’t taken you into the Party?”

“Yes, because my comrades think I have read too much and I am different from them.”

“What?” The thick eyebrows stood up on Liang’s forehead. “Does Secretary Si Ma Lin have the same opinion?”

“Yes, he said I had some stinking airs of a petty intellectual. You know I didn’t even finish middle school.”

“The bastard, I’ll talk to him right now. Come with me.” Liang went out to the corridor, where a telephone hung on the wall. Zhou was scared but had to follow him. He regretted having blurted out what the secretary had said and was
afraid Director Liang would ask Si Ma what he meant by “stinking airs of a petty intellectual.”

“Give me Radio Company,” Liang grunted into the phone.

“Hello, who’s this?… I want to speak to Si Ma Lin.” Liang turned to Zhou. “I must teach this ass a lesson.”