Authors: Carlos Rojas
Everyone had already emerged from their huts. They all stood silently in front of the Child’s burned-down tent, watching as he walked under the setting sun. As the Child approached, everyone’s silence became increasingly uneasy. They were as pale as frost-covered leaves at the start of winter.
“Why are you all just standing there? Who’s going to greet me?” the Child shouted to them as he approached, in a tone of excitement, anger, and baffled resentment.
Standing at the front of the crowd were the Theologian, the Scholar, and the Physician. The Theologian originally wanted to go down to meet the Child, but when he saw that the Scholar and everyone else were standing there without moving, he also waited there as well. In the end, no one went down to greet the Child and tell him about the fire. Instead, they stared silently at his face, watching as he came forward with his bags, as though they were waiting for him to bring back their anger.
When the Child realized something was wrong, he paused and peered through the crowd at the black cinders behind them. He too turned pale and began to rush toward the people standing as silent as gravestones, as though wanting to burst right through. As he did so he uttered a series of sharp, unintelligible cries of surprise.
3.
Heaven’s Child
, pp. 312–20
So it came to pass.
The Child’s new tent was erected that same evening.
The new tent was placed in the same location as the original one, though a few meters closer to the embankment. When the moon rose, they erected several poles, then brought over some canvas from the canteen and proceeded to pitch the new tent under the moonlight. The moon was as bright as a mirror. They brought over some fresh yellow sand to the mud- and ash-covered area where the old tent had been, to serve as a foundation for a new one. As before, the Child’s room was like a new world.
There was a bed and a lamp. There was a wood-burning stove. The Child’s face glowed in the lamplight as he gazed out at the crowd standing before him.
They tried to recalculate how many blossoms and how many stars each person had received, in order to recognize those who were first in line to return home. Although the Child recalled that there had been only a handful of people who had more than a hundred and twenty blossoms, when they did their calculations they came up with more than a dozen. Similarly, he remembered that there had been around a dozen who had at least a hundred and ten blossoms, but when they did their calculations they came up with several dozen. Finally, he recalled that there had been two dozen who had at least a hundred blossoms, but upon recalculating they came up with forty-three.
The Child only remembered how many blossoms and certificates he himself had been given, and couldn’t recall precisely how many blossoms everyone else had. The Child knew his entire room had been covered in a sea of red, as red as wild persimmons in late autumn, but he couldn’t recall who had a hundred and twenty blossoms, who had a hundred and ten, and who had fewer than a hundred.
After the Child’s tent burned down, everyone recalculated how many people had just under a hundred blossoms, and they came up with seventy-eight. But originally there had only been around thirty. The Child was sitting by the fire and the Theologian sat nearby in a chair and listened as everyone came forward to report on their blossoms. But the numbers they reported were entirely fictitious. As everyone walked in and out, the Child sat on his bed by the fire, with that yellow canvas travel bag he had brought back sitting by his feet. When all the figures were reported, a smile appeared in the corner of the Child’s lips. Then he slowly walked out of the tent, and everyone followed him.
Inside the tent it was deathly quiet, but outside everything was in tumult. All of the criminals who had not yet reached a hundred blossoms came to watch the uproar, hovering in the moonlight in front of the tent. Those who had already exceeded a hundred blossoms, meanwhile, cursed those who falsely claimed they had earned that many. Everyone was cursing furiously. Those who originally had not reached a hundred blossoms falsely reported that they had, swearing up and down and cursing others for falsely reporting their own totals. No one knew, however, who had deliberately burned down the Child’s tent, with all the blossoms inside. Or perhaps it had been an accident.
The moonlight was as calm as water, and the night was dark and silent. It was almost New Year’s, and the waning moon was hanging in the sky. In the distance, the Yellow River was flowing, and steel furnaces were burning on the opposite bank. Faint sounds of steel smelting and of people talking wafted over. The Child gazed at the sky, looked at the light from the steel furnaces, then he returned alone to his tent and placed the statistician’s report on the chair. Under the light of the lamp, he removed a military jacket from his bag and put it on. The jacket was old, but when the Child put it on, buttoned it, and sat at attention, it looked very dignified. The jacket was light green verging on yellow, but the five large dull red buttons emitted a dull red glow. In a dignified manner, the Child called for someone to enter, and asked,
“Did you really have that many blossoms?”
The person in question was a middle-aged associate professor, who had written some astonishing treatises. His expression was as serious as his treatises, and he exclaimed that the number of blossoms he had previously reported was actually incorrect. “I had posted them all on the tent pole, and no one knew I had that many blossoms.”
After he left, another professor arrived and stood next to the Child’s chair, examining the numbers in the new report.
The Child asked, “Did you really have that many blossoms?”
The professor looked as though he were about to burst into tears. “I had a hundred and eighteen, but no one knew! I can still recall precisely when I received each of them. If you give me a pencil and paper, I’ll show you exactly how I had a hundred and eighteen.” The professor wanted to take the Child’s pencil and paper and begin calculating. He used to be a mathematician at a famous university in the capital, and had spent his entire life demonstrating why one plus one must equal two. After using a lot of fancy formulas and equations, he finally proved that one plus one is not merely equal to two, it is
really
equal to two. After reporting on his results, the higher-up wrote a single line on his thesis, which said, “Why don’t we send this person for Re-Ed?”
The Child, however, didn’t let him do his calculations, and instead simply took him at his word and told him to leave. Two more people came in, then two more. Finally, the Scholar entered. The Scholar walked with a heavy step and a hardened expression. The scabs on his forehead where the skin had been burned, blistered, and then frozen were somewhat hard. The frostbite on his cheeks was turning black, as was his entire face. He entered the room and looked around at the new décor, and at the fresh sand on the ground. Then his gaze came to rest on the Child’s old but dignified army jacket. The Scholar gazed at him contemptuously. He no longer had the guilty and abject expression that he had had a month earlier, when he was forced to wear the dunce hat and write out all of his crimes while kneeling on the embankment next to the steel furnace. Instead, he stared intently at the Child, and before the Child could speak he said in a cold and even tone,
“You mustn’t ask me if I really had a hundred and twenty-one blossoms. You are welcome not to let me and the Musician return home, but you must not doubt the fact that I had a hundred and twenty-one blossoms.”
The atmosphere in the room suddenly became very tense. The Scholar was tall, and he was standing up. The Child, meanwhile, was short and thin, and furthermore was sitting down. The Scholar’s face was as hard and black as a stone. The authority of the Child’s military uniform was diminished somewhat. He nevertheless stood erect, with a calm but earnest expression. His jaunty attitude, which had been propped up as if by a coat hanger, suddenly collapsed. The Child looked at the Scholar, and after several seconds he stammered,
“Then, who lied about how many blossoms they had?”
The Scholar didn’t respond.
The Child said, “If you can tell me the name of one person who reported an inflated figure, I’ll give you a blossom. If you give me two names, I’ll give you two blossoms.”
The Child said, “Answer me! Answer me! If you know, then answer me!”
The Scholar still didn’t respond.
The Scholar stood in the middle of the new tent. Since he was tall, if he stood near the sides his head would reach the canvas top. Standing in the middle, however, he held his head high and his chest out. The Scholar kept his mouth closed, refusing to say a word. His gaze was stern. When the Scholar still wouldn’t speak, the Child acted even more dignified, with the same hard yet slightly tender expression as before. He stood straighter and adjusted his jacket.
“Answer me!” the Child commanded. “If you give me four names, then I’ll not only give you credit for all hundred and twenty-one of your blossoms, I’ll even award you four more. That way the two of you will have one hundred and twenty-five, or the equivalent of five pentagonal stars, and one of you will be free to return home.”
At this point, the Scholar finally responded.
First, he smiled—just a faint hint of a smile. Then, in a voice that was neither loud nor soft, he said,
“I know who falsely reported that they had more than a hundred blossoms. I could name at least twenty of them, but I won’t.”
“Don’t you want the Musician to be able to return home?”
“Would my hundred and twenty-one blossoms that burned up still count? You know I had a hundred and twenty-one, so now that they are gone you should compensate me for them.”
“If you tell me who falsely reported having more than a hundred blossoms, I will count those blossoms you lost.”
“But if I don’t tell you, they won’t count?” The Scholar took half a step forward and, like a jagged mountain, stood in front of the Child. With a combination of a sneer and a laugh, he asked, “Are you not concerned that, if this time people with few blossoms burned down your tent, next time those who originally had many blossoms might well wait until you are asleep and burn down your tent with you in it?” The way the Scholar looked at the Child, it was unclear whether he was threatening him or simply offering advice. “If you don’t count
all
of the blossoms that people earned, aren’t you concerned that, beginning tomorrow, everyone might start refusing to smelt any more steel?”
“What about you?” the Child asked. “Would you burn down this tent with me in it?”
“I wouldn’t,” the Scholar said, grinding his teeth. “But if my blossoms don’t count, I might as well die tomorrow, since even if I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life as a criminal, I’ll never again smelt steel.”
“You really won’t smelt anymore?”
The Scholar vigorously shook his head.
The Child was quiet for a moment, and gazed silently at the Scholar’s face. The Theologian, meanwhile, was still sitting to the side, with that list of names and the corresponding recalculated blossom totals. The Author was now also sitting to the side. Because the Child didn’t say anything, and didn’t tell them to leave, they just kept sitting there. When people entered and saw the Author and the Theologian, some would look enviously while others would glance at them coldly. The Scholar, meanwhile, looked at them with an expression of pity, as though they were a couple of dogs tagging along after their master. The Child remained calm and quiet, yet knowing what to do. He looked at the Scholar and asked again, “Tomorrow you really won’t collect black sand and smelt steel?” The Scholar silently shook his head, indicating that he had completely made up his mind.
The Child turned around, then calmly grabbed his yellow travel bag and unzipped it. He rummaged inside the bag and eventually pulled something out. Astonishingly, what he pulled out was a black, gleaming gun. This was the gun that the provincial governor had given him—the pistol the governor had used while fighting in the revolution. No one knew why the governor had chosen to give the Child a gun. Actually, the Child had just wanted one of the clay shotguns they had in the department store, but the governor had generously given him his old pistol. When the Child suddenly pulled out the gun, it was like a scene from an opera. He placed the gleaming black gun on the empty stool beside him, then started rummaging in his bag again. There was the sound of a bag being ripped open, and he pulled out a bullet. It was gold-colored, but had been rubbed down to the color of lead. The Child placed the bullet next to the gun. The atmosphere in the room became very tense, as though countless ropes covering the tent had suddenly been drawn tight. The wood in the furnace was burned up, and the unburned wood outside the furnace fell to the ground, as flames leapt into the air. No one had expected there would be a gun, but now they understood why the Child appeared wearing a military jacket. The Child was incredibly calm, and seemed to have planned everything in advance. After placing the bag to one side, the Child turned back to the Scholar. The Scholar was quite pale, but also appeared calm, forcing himself to maintain a look of disdain.
The Scholar said, “Even if you threaten to shoot me, I still won’t smelt any more steel. Not, that is, unless you recognize the hundred and twenty-one blossoms I lost.”
The Child looked at the Scholar with a tender and honest expression. His voice was soft and trembled slightly, as though he were begging the Scholar for something.