The Crazed (8 page)

I grasped the front of my shirt and gasped, “Goodness, what a fright you gave me!”

“You want to pay a fine?”

“No, no, I didn’t touch anything, just wanted to study it closely.” Hot-faced, I raised both hands with the palms toward her and backed away.

Absently I passed through the next three sections. Then in the corner of two screens I came on a piece called
A Poet,
with the subtitle
No, Not in the Presence of Others.
This painting fazed me. Viewed from a distance of ten feet, the human figure in it resembled a scarlet rooster. If the title had not been given, I could hardly have made out what this was about. The piece was vertically long and presented a tall, emaciated man in a tattered cloak, the end of which flapped in the breeze. Beyond him snaked a brook, along which a few people were sauntering, fishing, practicing tai chi, or blowing bamboo flutes, and two women were scrubbing laundry on flat stones. With his neck stretched, the poet seemed to be yearning to chant something, but unable to bring it out. A huge earring hung from his earlobe, casting on his throat an elongated shadow, which reminded me of a noose. A half-transparent mask almost shielded his nose and mouth. His shifty eyes and hollowed cheeks suggested a fearful ghost rather than a man. This painting made me wonder whether there had been an oversight on the part of the authorities that had allowed it to be included. Quickly I turned away.

When I reached the end of the exhibition, ready to head for the door, I came across a broad piece entitled
A Hundred
Donkeys,
which served as the finale. In it many donkeys, large and small, stood on grassland. They were in various postures: some were grazing, some touched each other’s necks and

muzzles, and a few still carried wicker baskets. Several mother donkeys held their bodies still to suckle the young; their teats were wizened, almost invisible. The grown-up donkeys all kept their heads low, including those that were not browsing. Many of them had downcast eyes, which darkened with shyness and modesty. Their legs looked vigorous but fragile. In the right upper corner of the piece there were a few lines of verse serving as a caption. I stepped sideways and recognized the meaning of the poem. It read:

They endure humiliation
And bear the heaviest loads.
Unafraid of long trips
They tread the roughest roads.

At first I was touched by these words, which seemed to provide an allegorical focus for the painting. They emphasized the virtue of endurance and silent self-sacrifice, a virtue deemed to be a noble quality of the Chinese character. Throughout thousands of years the donkey and the ox had been eulogized as obedient, industrious, cheap to keep, mute, and enduring.

For some reason Mr. Yang’s Genesis story came to mind. How these donkeys differed from that one who begged God to abridge his life span so as to reduce his suffering! Then I remembered that when I turned seven, one summer night, a starving donkey had broken into the tofu mill on the tree farm where my parents worked. A militiaman on patrol heard the noise inside the shed and shouted, “Who’s there? Password!” The dumb animal, frightened, dashed out and ran away. Believing it was a thief and unable to stop it with his command, the man fired his rifle and a bullet struck the donkey down. It bled to death an hour later. The next morning my father helped the kitchen skin the carcass, so the cooks gave him a chunk of the boiled meat to bring home in the evening. That was the first time I had tasted donkey meat, which was delicious. My mother cut it into small cubes and seasoned it with mashed garlic, soy sauce, vinegar, and sesame oil.

Now, standing before the painting and thinking about the caption, I realized how people had humanized animals and animalized human beings. These creatures represented an abnormal species created purely for human needs. If man hadn’t imposed his will on animals or abused his power and intelligence over them, no donkey would ever have kept its head close to the ground, not to mention have worn a humble look like these creatures in the painting. Without human subjugation, donkeys would have eaten grapes, cucumbers, melons, tomatoes, and would have borne nothing on their backs; they wouldn’t have given a damn about the quality of roads. Without the iron shoes, they’d have had soft hooves, too lazy to take any trip. In short, they would have been donkeys as donkeys.

I grew dubious and angry, feeling the painting must be either false or satirical. To some extent I was perturbed by my response to it. This kind of artwork used to touch me easily, but now it had lost its impact because I had begun to look at things with doubtful eyes.

When I came out of the exhibition, it was already past twelve o’clock. The sky was grayish with smog, and the air thick with automobile exhaust and frying oil. With less than an hour before my shift started, I had to find a place to eat lunch without delay. I mustn’t be late again.

11

As I opened the door to the sickroom, Mr. Yang was sitting on the bed and reading the People’s Daily, a pair of bifocals on his nose. His left cheek still bore the marks of the wrinkles in the pillowcase. In a gray cashmere cardigan he looked casual and calm, as if he were taking a break from his work. I glared at Banping and said, “Come out, I want to have a word with you.” We both turned to the door.

“What is it?” he asked the moment we were in the hall.

“Why did you give him the newspaper and the glasses?”

“He wanted to read.”

“But that may hurt his brain. Why are you so careless?”

“Go easy, Jian. How come you’re so crabby today?”

“Dr. Wu told us not to let him read anything, you know that.”

“But if I didn’t give him the newspaper, he’d cry like a little boy and even call me names. He wanted to sit up and study something. What else could I do? The paper at least can keep him peaceful. He said he must know our country’s current affairs.”

“Like a statesman, eh?” I couldn’t help being sarcastic, then heaved a sigh.

He grinned and said, “He’s like a little kid now and we should humor him.”

We both went back into the room. Banping had been rereading
Jean-Christophe
recently; he picked up the book from the armrest of the wicker chair and thrust it into the side pocket of his jacket. He looked unhappy and left without a word.

I felt bad as I realized I shouldn’t have blown up at him. He might not have had a comfortable time staying with our teacher in this depressing room either.

Soon Mr. Yang began reading an editorial aloud. His voice grew stronger and stronger as he continued. The newspaper was an old back issue. The article was about a flood in the provinces on the Yangtze River. Hundreds of people had drowned; sixteen thousand houses flooded; troops were sent over to help the victims; Vice Premier Zhang was flying from place to place to express the government’s sympathy and solicitude to the victims and to inspect the flood relief measures. Mr. Yang was reading the article ardently as if he were an official addressing an audience of hundreds of people. His mouth was ringed with foam, and spittle darted in every direction, some of it falling on the newspaper and some on the dark green blanket over his legs. He was so excited that he was trembling a little, his eyes glinting behind the lenses.

I went up to him and tried to take the newspaper away, but he gripped it tightly. So I gave up.

A few minutes later he put the newspaper down on his lap and started an official speech. “Comrades,” he shouted with his eyes closed, “our country has difficulties now, what shall we do to help? Under the wise leadership of our Communist Party, we are not afraid of any natural disaster. As long as we rally closely around the Party Central Committee and as long as we help one another, we shall defeat the river and conquer the flood. We Chinese are heroic men and women, capable of holding up the sky and restoring the earth. No natural calamities can daunt us, because we live in a new society now. In the old days a cataclysm of such magnitude would toss millions of corpses everywhere and turn our land upside down. But now it cannot overcome us at all. Why? Why is everybody here still alive, well clad and well fed? Why do many of you still have smiles on your faces? Why are you still healthy and hopeful? The reason is clear and simple—because we have our greatest Helmsman Chairman Mao and the wise leadership of the Communist Party. Comrades, our Chairman is deeply concerned about our well-being. He doesn’t go to bed at night. Instead, he pores over maps and holds emergency conferences to make plans. Although he’s tired and sleepy, he eats oranges and smokes Ginseng cigarettes to keep himself awake. He’s working his heart out to save us from this flood. There’s no doubt he will save us, every one of us! Comrades, we must work ten times harder, care for the old and the young, and faithfully follow the Party leaders. Remember, solidarity is strength!” He paused, panting, then resumed: “Most important of all, we must not lose hope. If you lost your house, our country will build you a new one. If your crops are gone, our country will allocate you seeds and provisions. If your livestock are drowned, our country will supply you with money and young animals. In one word, we shall have everything back and we shall defeat nature. There’s no reason to lose heart.”

He lifted his right hand halfway, looking around with an air of authority; then he held the newspaper with both hands again. “Comrades,” he went on, “in a time like this, we must be more alert to class struggle. Our enemies will not sleep when we are in trouble. I’m sure they will creep out of their holes and sabotage our efforts at every opportunity. They will spread rumors, fan evil fires, and sow the seeds of discontent. Comrades, keep your eyes open on those blackhearted evildoers and redouble your vigilance against—”

“Shut up!” I yelled with a shudder. He was pathetic. He had forgotten that he himself used to be maltreated as one of those so-called class enemies. Oppressed for decades, now he dreamed of ruling others. He didn’t know who he was anymore. I rushed to him, seized the newspaper, threw it to the floor, and stamped on it.

He looked shocked and remained silent for a moment, still holding two tiny scraps of the paper with his thumbs and forefingers. Then he said wistfully, “They ought to have appointed me the general director of the flood relief work. I’m more capable than any of those bureaucrats, who are just rice bags and wineskins.”

“You’ve forgotten who you are,” I said deliberately.

“I’m a born official.”

“No, you’re just a crazy bookworm.”

“I’m destined to govern.”

“You can’t even govern yourself.”

He paused for a few seconds, then blustered, “Oh, how dare you talk to me like this! If you were not my son, I would have you hauled out and beheaded. Heavens, how can I have sired such an unfilial thing?” He began wailing, tears trickling down his fleshy cheeks.

That frightened me. No matter how furious I was, I shouldn’t have disturbed him so much. I sat down on the bed and put my hand on his shoulder. I said, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. Yang. I just hate to see you make a fool of yourself. Don’t be so heartbroken. See, I’m here to take care of you.”

“Am I still an official?”

“Sure, you hold the fifth rank, the same as the provincial governor’s.”

“Do I have a chauffeur and a chef?”

“Yes, a dozen servants.”

“And a personal doctor?”

“Of course, a complete staff.”

“Including four armed bodyguards?”

“Sure, you have a squad of them.”

“Also a Red Flag sedan?”

“Yes.”

“No, I like a Mercedes-Benz better.”

“All right, you can have that.”

He calmed down, but was still sniveling. Again with a spoon I slowly ground a sleeping pill in a cup, poured some orangeade into it, and fed the concoction to him. He obeyed me like a child exhausted by crying. After that, I put him back into bed.

As he sank into sleep, I picked up the newspaper from the floor and looked through it. I was not interested in the old news, but a photo on an inner page caught my attention and gave me the creeps. It showed a young woman, eyes shut and crying with her mouth wide open as if she were laughing. She had jumped off a smuggling sampan, swimming toward Hong Kong, but a shark had attacked her and ripped a large piece of flesh off her thigh. Her femur showed, whitish like a debarked tree branch and dripping blood. A police boat had rescued her and carried her to a hospital nearby. Later she was returned, together with a pair of crutches, to her hometown in Hubei Province. Evidently the picture was intended to deter people from sneaking across the water into Hong Kong. There were other photos on the same page. One of them showed the fossil of a dinosaur egg found in the Mongolian Plain by a team of American paleontologists.

I dropped the newspaper on the red floor and thought about Mr. Yang’s speech. Not until just now had it ever entered my mind that he might desire to become an official. He had often told me that he hated bureaucrats. If he really meant what he said, why did he yearn to be one of them? Probably he used to be able to quench this hankering, but now he was too ill to suppress it anymore. Or maybe this longing had been dormant in him all the time and even he himself wasn’t aware of it; now when he lost his mind, it manifested itself.

On the other hand, I shouldn’t be too hard on Mr. Yang. Empleomania was commonplace among the intellectuals I knew. A case in point was the provost of our university, Shengtan Bai, a renowned mathematician, who was now dying of cancer. Four months ago when he heard that he was being considered for the provostship, without delay he began to bike through the campus once every other day to demonstrate that he was in adequate health, though in reality he was suffering from rectal cancer. He was a stalwart man, weighing at least two hundred pounds. It was said that after every bicycle ride he’d lie in bed at home groaning in pain for hours on end. Eventually he did get the promotion and stopped teaching and doing research. Unfortunately, he couldn’t enjoy the high post for long because his cancer had spread. He sat on the leather swivel chair in his new office only a few times, having to stay home two weeks after his appointment. Now he couldn’t even attend official banquets, unable to sit anymore.

To be fair, when Mr. Yang was in his right mind, he had never appeared keen about any official position. Many times he told me to be detached and disinterested, which he believed was the only proper way of pursuing scholarship. He would say, “I’d talk of poetics only with those who have an unpolluted mind.” How often he expressed to me his contempt for some pseudo-intellectuals, whose sole ambition was to enter officialdom and whose main function was to write editorials for the Party’s publications, to prepare speeches for their superiors, and to attack the people the authorities disliked. In Mr. Yang’s own words, “A scholar must not be a clerk or a mouthpiece of others.”

The previous winter when he returned from Canada, he had told me excitedly that scholars in the West lived more like intellectuals. He and I were sitting in his living room, which also served as a dining room. He explained to me over Dragon Well tea, “My friend at UC-Berkeley said that in his department nobody coveted the chair, because they all wanted more time for research. Contrary to this darned place”—he knocked the dining table with his knuckles as if it were the desk in his office. “Here to become a departmental chair is the pinnacle of a professor’s career. But scholars abroad are more detached and don’t have to be involved in politics directly, so they can take up long-term research projects, which are much more valuable and more significant. Oh, you should have seen the libraries at Berkeley, absolutely magnificent. You can go to the stacks directly, see what’s on them, and can even check out some rare books. Frankly, I would die happy if I could work as a librarian in a place like that all my life.”

True, he might have romanticized the academia in the West, but he was genuinely moved. Later he advised me to consider attending graduate school in the United States, saying, “You can live a real intellectual’s life there after you earn a Ph.D. from an American college.”

His advice surprised me, because I had never imagined living in a foreign country. Although it was fashionable among graduate students to study abroad, I hadn’t thought about this matter for myself. How could Mr. Yang talk of emigrating from our homeland like moving to another province? Did he make this suggestion also for the sake of his daughter? In other words, he might have figured that it was impossible for Meimei to go abroad on a scholarship in medicine, whereas I might receive some financial aid in the humanities, so only through me could she get to America. But I soon dismissed my misgivings and was convinced that he mainly had my interest in mind. Despite lacking confidence in my English, I decided to contact some schools in the United States. I applied to Yale, Columbia, the University of Wisconsin at Madison, and UC-Berkeley. Mr. Yang wrote a stunning recommendation for me, saying I was a rising scholar in poetic studies in mainland China. I was somewhat embarrassed by his excessive praise, though he meant what he said. He even offered to pay the twenty-nine-dollar TOEFL fee for me, since I couldn’t come by any foreign currency myself.

A month later I sat for the test, in which I didn’t do well. The written part went all right now that I had a solid grasp of English vocabulary, idioms, collocations, and syntax, but the part on listening comprehension dragged my scores down. I left many questions unanswered, not able to follow a meteorologist’s forecast and the conversation between a postman and a woman customer. So my total score was merely 570, below the 600 standard most Ph.D. programs in the humanities required. To my amazement, the University of Wisconsin accepted me, though it wouldn’t offer me any financial aid. Without a penny I couldn’t possibly go to the United States. To be honest, I wasn’t disappointed at all, because I still could not see the point of studying Chinese poetry in a foreign country. What’s more, I was unsure if I could survive in America. A former graduate student of our department, an excellent calligrapher, had gone to New York to study toward a master’s degree in journalism, and ever since he arrived there he had slaved as a busboy in a Cantonese restaurant in Manhattan. His parents were terribly worried that he might lose his mind, as he often complained in his letters that he had become an educated coolie, working more than fifty hours a week to earn his tuition, and might never graduate—he was too exhausted to study.

Last winter I began to prepare for the Ph.D. exams seriously. Mr. Yang once said that after I entered Beijing University, it would be easier for me to get a scholarship from an American college. He explained, “You’ll hold a vintage position.” His words implied that Beijing University was a prestigious school, internationally known, so foreign colleges would be more willing to accept its students. He was still bent on sending me abroad. I was not enthusiastic about the idea, still daunted by English, which I could read but couldn’t write or speak. How could I accomplish any significant work in poetic studies in America without the ability to write well in English? Besides, I was not fully convinced that a foreign country could be a better place than China for studying Chinese poetry. Mr. Yang’s eagerness suggested that he might indeed have his daughter’s interest in mind. My doubts revived.