The Four Books (5 page)

After that, no one else even dared to flee.

Life here is in fact much better than prison. Here everyone has enough food to eat and clothes to wear. The air is as fresh as a ripe peach or pear. Many people spend most of their time sunning themselves in winter and enjoying the cool breeze in summer, and throughout the year they are only busy when there is farmwork to be done. When the farmwork is light, they feel as though they are on vacation. Like me, for example. Here I can not only go for walks, enjoy the fresh air, chat with my neighbors, play cards, and sleep, I can also write novels. If everyone had not insisted that a
mu
of farmland definitely wouldn’t be able to yield six hundred
jin
of grain, then virtually everyone would be able to read whatever books they wanted, and think about whatever they wanted.

However, everyone committed the grievous crime of claiming that a
mu
of land wouldn’t be able to yield six hundred
jin
of grain. As a result, things were never the same again, precipitating a situation whereby a tiny grain of sand was transformed into a huge stone, and a light breeze was transformed into a full-blown storm.

3.
Criminal Records
, p. 9 (excerpt)

The seemingly calm afternoon of December 26 was actually fraught with class struggle between the capitalists and the proletariat. On the surface, everyone was undergoing labor reform, following the current trends, but in reality the capitalists were secretly cursing and plotting against the proletariat. For instance, I noticed that when the pretty young Musician went to work in the fields, she would always have a copy of
La Dame aux Camélias
in her pocket. This is an extremely reactionary French capitalist novel about a prostitute. Not only had the Musician not voluntarily handed over this book, but she even dared to carry it with her when she went down into the fields, and when everyone else was resting she would secretly read the novel, rapt with attention and her eyes full of tears. She would stare intently at that image of the heavily made-up prostitute, Marguerite, and for the longest time couldn’t bring herself to look away—and from this one can clearly see how sordid her thoughts were. In order to attract men, Marguerite would wear a camellia blossom and therefore always smelled of camellias. The Musician, too, always emitted a camellia-like scent of cold cream. Marguerite’s hair flowed down like a waterfall, while the Musician’s also hung past to her shoulders like a waterfall. What did this all mean?

I recommend that the higher-ups would be well served if they carefully monitor the Musician’s capitalist behavior and tendencies. A single ant hole can cause an entire dike to collapse. We can not permit the Musician’s petty bourgeois feminine sensibility to infect our Re-Ed district.

4.
Old Course
, pp. 17–22

The reason the higher-ups requested that I write
Criminal Records
was so that I might record all of the discussions and actions of our ninety-ninth to which the higher-ups themselves were not privy. In return, they promised I would quickly be designated a new man and allowed to return home. I therefore proceeded to write down everything I saw and heard. I left some portions of the document in my drawer, and handed over others. The parts I handed over described my contribution and loyalty to Re-Ed, while the ones I left behind in my drawer contained material I hoped to use for a novel after I succeeded in becoming a new man. I didn’t know which of these was more important to me, just as I didn’t know which is more important—the life of an author, or his works. In any event, the key thing was that I could write. I could stand in front of all the criminals, and before they even had a chance to dip their pens in the inkpot, I could use the reputation I had gained from publishing a revolutionary novel to then write my
Criminal Records
, which would be handed over to the higher-ups. I could also, in front of the higher-ups, use my reputation as the author of this
Criminal Records
to gather material for my future novels. The Child finds me, above all the others, most reliable. He trusts me just as intimately as he does his own eyes and hands.

The sowing began.

No one further raised the question of whether the district’s per-
mu
grain production would be able to reach six hundred
jin
. No one opened their foul scholarly mouths to make false, exaggerated, and unscientific reports, or spout antiscientific nonsense. Everyone said, “Science is a turd. Anyone who steps in it will get dirty, so it would be best to bury it out in the field.”

The land was divided among the different brigades. Each person was assigned about seven
mu
, and each brigade was given two hundred
mu
that was a combination of sand and arable soil. The smaller fields were a few
mu
in size, while the larger ones could be several dozen. Between the fields, there were areas that had become ponds, marshes, lakes, and wasteland. The fields were wedged between these wetlands and wasteland, and for ten or twenty
li
there wouldn’t be a soul in sight.

In order to sow all the fields in a single week, the ninety-ninth’s four brigades were divided into groups of seven or eight people each. Those who could sow were assigned to operate the wheat drill and everyone else pulled ropes attached to either side of a plow. Previously, each
mu
could yield two hundred
jin
of grain, which came from about half a sack of seed, or about forty
jin
. But now that each
mu
had to yield six hundred
jin
, it would require a 150-
jin
sack of seed, and the seeds themselves would need to be planted more closely together. At this time of year in the wild plain, the heat had passed but the autumn chill had not yet arrived. The wind, carrying a muddy, alkaline smell, blew in from the Yellow River. Everyone’s faces were cold, but their bodies were warm from pulling the ropes, leaving them soaked in sweat as though they had just taken a bath and then put on their clothes without drying off first.

Our brigade was located several
li
to the south of the district. If you were to walk over from a three-
li
-wide marsh, you would reach a triangular field about fifty
mu
in size, which was essentially reclaimed wasteland. The soil was plowed, and the new earth was bright yellowish red. The field was surrounded by gray sand and marsh plants. Everyone was sowing and pulling ropes, proceeding methodically from one end of the field to the other, and then turning back again. They did this over and over, like birds soaring through the endless sky. I was one of the people handling the wheat drill, which was what the peasants called a skill. That work was certainly not harder than writing a novel, and consisted of merely inserting the row of four drill bits two inches into the soil, then rotating the drum forward thirty degrees and, with the help of the people pulling the ropes, steadying the drill handle to deposit the seed into the row of holes. First the fields are drilled, then the wheat seeds are planted. After two trips back and forth, I became quite proficient at this task; and after four trips I was an expert. Watching the people pull the drill in front of me was like watching a blindfolded mule pull a grindstone in a mill house.

The mule driver asked, “Are you all tired?”

The criminals pulling the drill said, “That’s right. If fifty
jin
of seeds can yield two hundred
jin
of grain per
mu
, wouldn’t one hundred and fifty
jin
of seeds yield six hundred
jin
of grain?”

The mule driver replied, “If you are thirsty, then go to the edge of the field to drink some water.”

They said, “They’ve already taken away our books. Every night we just sit around and play cards.”

The mule driver said, “The Child is a good person. He didn’t burn our books.”

They said, “We hear . . . we hear that several days ago a professor from Re-Ed tried to run away, but was caught—they removed his pants and placed them on his head, and made him go out into the field with his pants like that and count the stars.”

From the time that the sun was directly overhead, shining down on the plowed fields, to when it set in the west, everyone became as exhausted as withered grass. They stopped to rest, sitting in the middle of the field and emptying their shoes of dirt and bugs that had crawled in and gotten ground into paste. Others had blisters on their shoulders from pulling the rope, and used thorns to pop them—letting the blood and pus flow out, as their cries of pain echoed brightly over the horizon.

The youngster who went in search of books on behalf of the Child was a technician and he had worked in the laboratory of some university. After the Technician’s advisor was designated as a target of re-education, he asked the Technician to attend on his behalf as he was too old to go to Re-Ed. Accordingly, the Technician tearfully went to speak to the higher-up, who asked, “Are you really willing to go in his place?” The Technician nodded and said, “A student must be loyal to his teacher just as a son must be loyal to his father, and this is the only way I can repay my teacher.” Therefore, he went to the ninety-ninth himself, and was assigned to our brigade. During the rest period, the Technician frequently retreated behind some thornbushes on the edge of the field to take a piss. He had to walk quite a distance to get there. This time, when he arrived, he froze in his tracks.

He abruptly hid inside another thornbush.

Just as suddenly, he popped back out, panting, running around the field like a deer. He returned and dragged me back to that thornbush about eight hundred meters away. I asked, “What’s wrong?” He explained, “There’s an interesting show to watch.” His face was as red as the setting sun. In order to run faster, he took off his shoes and carried them in his hands. When he stumbled and dropped one shoe, he then threw the other one into the field as well and continued hurtling forward, like the shoe he had just thrown away.

Without realizing what exactly was happening, the people working the fields ran after him as though they were chasing a thief. The Technician suddenly stopped, as though he had suddenly thought of something, then he turned to me and asked,

“If I inform on someone, wouldn’t my reward be that I can return home for a month?”

I nodded and said, “Did someone run away?”

He laughed and said, “Even more serious than that.” Then he looked to everyone else and announced, “Aiya . . . This is something that I noticed and reported. No one should compete with me.”

He gestured for everyone to quiet down, then carefully proceeded forward. By this point it was already late summer or early fall, and the locust and elm trees, together with the wild thornbushes growing around them, rose from the riverbank like a cloud of smoke. The bushes were originally black, but because the tree leaves had started to turn color and fall to the ground, the dense shrubs appeared lighter than before. There was a thick smell of vegetation, combined with a scent of decaying autumn leaves. Each thornbush stood as tall as one or two men, and together they resembled a crowd of people attending a meeting. Everyone followed the Technician. When he moved quickly they also moved quickly, and when he moved slowly they did as well. When they were finally standing near that clump of thornbushes, the Technician stopped and lifted his foot, indicating that he wanted everyone to take off their shoes as he had done. They removed their shoes and, holding them in their hands, followed him barefoot.

Then they approached closer.

Catlike, they circled around the thornbush that was as big as several rooms. But when they entered it, they didn’t see anything at all—there was only a patch of flattened grass in the middle, including a spot that looked like a bed where someone had slept and left an impression. The Technician stood in front of that bed of straw and, with a look of keen disappointment, kicked at it and cursed, “Damn!”

All of the professors, instructors, and other scholars cursed with him.

They gazed into the distance, and saw that two plows and two groups of people from the second and third brigades, who were sowing wheat in the setting sun, were trudging back and forth like a couple herds of mules or oxen.

5.
Old Course
, pp. 29–32 (excerpt)

The Technician remained uneasy until nightfall, his frustration at not having seized the adulterers in the thornbush etched clearly on his face, like a brick suspended in midair. For the longest time, he kept his head bowed as he pulled the rope. The plow shook, as though it were trying to leap out of the field.

The next day, when he was still plowing the same field, he would periodically run over to the thornbush to pee. He would always sneak up to the bush and carefully reach in, hoping that he would once again encounter the scene he had witnessed the previous day.