The Four Books (26 page)

On the side of the dune facing the sun, the ground was covered with the sticks and leaves that, over the years, had fallen from the trees over the tomb, gradually transforming what had originally been white sandy ground into rich black soil. I spent three days walking around the perimeter of the ninety-ninth’s wheat field, until finally deciding to settle down here above the imperial tomb. To the southeast, there were several wheat fields extending for several
li
, and to the southwest there were more wheat fields and some salt pits. To the northeast and the northwest, apart from some salt pits there was just an expanse of wasteland. It being spring, salt-resistant wormwood and towerhead grass had begun to sprout, and consequently the salty and alkaline smell began to be replaced by the fresh scent of wild grass. Seen from the top of the hill, the wheat fields to the southeast appeared as bright and lustrous as silk. The wasteland to the northwest rose and fell unevenly, and the white patches that had not yet become completely covered with green growth resembled unwashed bedding that had been spread out on the ground. On the southeastern slope of the sand dune I cultivated a new plot of former wasteland, a square plot that I smoothed out and made it into a four-level terrace field—consisting of eight plots of land, each of which was as flat as a mirror. Then I dug up the soil made from decayed sticks and leaves on the hill, and transferred it all to those eight plots, arranging it to form a perfectly straight barrier along the side and front of each plot so that it could be used for irrigation or drainage when it rained. I also collected a number of stones from the wasteland and used them to construct a border around the four-level terrace fields, in order to prevent the terrace fields from collapsing.

The season for sowing wheat had already passed, and I naturally couldn’t simply throw the wheat seed onto the field. Instead I proceeded southeast until I reached a wheat field several
li
away, where I picked several wheat sprouts with thick, black leaves, pulled them up, and transplanted them to my four-level terrace. To prevent the sprouts from getting damaged in the move, I kept their roots embedded in a clump of dirt. Each time I transplanted a sprout, I poured several bowls of water onto the new field, to irrigate it. On the southeastern side of the hill, there appeared row after row of green plants in the black soil. On the first day after the transplant, the wheat sprouts began to emerge, and by the second or third day, the sprouts and the black soil mixed together. As the sprouts absorbed water and nutrients from the soil they began to come to life, and the leaves that were lying limply on the ground began arching into the air like leeks. They began using their leaves to greet the sun and the breeze, with a self-satisfied air, chattering and swaying in the wind.

A week later, my eight plots of land were covered in a thick layer of black and green.

I didn’t erect my shack on the southeast side of the hill, because the last thing I wanted was for the residents of the ninety-ninth, when they were out working their fields, to notice that I was living and growing wheat on this dune. Therefore, I erected the shack on the northwestern side, facing the endless wasteland.

With this, the loneliest period of my life began. I worked those eight plots of land, hoeing and irrigating them. I would sit at the top of the first plot looking at the invisible growth and transformation of the wheat sprouts. During my breaks, I would walk around the sand dune. In the morning I would stand on the hill and out at the rising sun, and in the evening I would stand on the hillside and gaze at the setting sun. Sometimes I would lie down on the front of the hill and sun myself until my head was covered in sweat, whereupon I would go around to the back of the hill and lie down, enjoying the cool breeze as I stared up intently at the changing shapes of the clouds in the sky and listened to the sound of the moon and stars approaching. I yearned to write. Lying next to those eight plots of land, I would get so anxious to write that my hands would become covered in sweat. In order to quell that urge, I had no choice but to grasp a handful of cool sand and dirt, so that my feverish and trembling hands could calm down, like a pair of trapped rabbits.

I didn’t know what I wanted to write, but I knew that if I didn’t write something I would never be able to get to sleep. When I left the ninety-ninth, the Child gave me half a bottle of ink and a notebook-full of red graph paper and directed me to write in this notebook every day. Every seven days when I went back, I was to give him what I had written, so that he could then pass it on to the higher-ups. I didn’t want to use that precious ink to simply record when I ate, slept, and worked in the fields. In fact, I didn’t want to write anything else for the Child and the higher-ups—not half a page, or even a few lines. Instead, I wanted to use this ink and paper to write what I really wanted to write. During this solitary period, I wanted to write a true book. I didn’t know what that book would be, but I was determined to write it nevertheless.

After I had spent half a month farming this dune several
li
from the ninety-ninth, the Child suddenly showed up one day. At the time I was hoeing those eight plots of land, pulling up tiny weeds as soon as they appeared. The Child staggered over. He was the only person in the ninety-ninth who knew why I was really here. Everyone else believed that the reason the Child had permitted me to leave was that he didn’t want the others to continue peeing and shitting in my bed. They were convinced that I had agreed to give the Child ears of wheat that were even bigger than ears of corn merely in order to secure his permission to get away from the others, and as for the question of whether or not I could actually do as I had promised, that would be more difficult than making steamed buns out of sand. No one but the Child believed in me. The first time he staggered over to those eight plots of land, walking to the side of the sand dune where I was working, I quickly went to greet him. He merely looked around, squatted down at the front of the field, and peered at the wheat sprouts that were just beginning to peek out of the soil. He gently stroked the sprout leaves, then stood up and stared at me skeptically.

“We agreed that if you don’t succeed in producing wheat with ears as big as ears of corn, you should shoot me dead and bury me right here.” He turned away and then, his voice trembling with excitement, added, “You should just bury me in this wheat field, such that my grave is facing east.”

I looked toward the east. The sun was high in the eastern sky, and was full of light. “Don’t worry, I can do it,” I said. Then I examined the Child’s face, and noticed that, as he was bathed in the white light, his skin seemed to have a peculiar hardness, as though a hard shell had formed over his soft flesh. Above his upper lip there was a layer of downy white hair, but there were several very prominent wrinkles on his forehead, like ripples in boiling water. Although he was still young, his aged appearance seemed to be from working in the fields all day. But, in the end, he turned to me with those limpid eyes. He gazed first at me, and then at that wheat field that looked as though it had been planted with melon beans, with a full five inches between each wheat sprout. After remaining silent for a long time, he asked,

“Aren’t these sprouts planted too sparsely?”

“If we want large ears, we can’t plant the sprouts too close together.”

“Can you really get the wheat ears to grow larger than ears of corn?”

“At harvest time you’ll see. I assure you that after the wheat has ripened, you will be able to take it to the higher-ups to see the provincial governor, and the provincial governor can escort you to the capital to present your wheat. You will be able to tour Beijing, see the sights, stay in Zhongnanhai, and have your picture taken with the nation’s highest higher-ups.”

The Child looked at me under the light of the midday sun, and gradually his face started to shimmer with a translucent golden glow, as though he were a gilded Buddhist statue that had been brought out of the temple and into the sunlight. In order to reinforce what I had said, I bit my lip and added in a low voice, “If I don’t succeed, you can make me wear a dunce cap and a placard for years, and have everyone piss and shit on my head every day. But if I do succeed, you should issue me five more large stars and secretly arrange for me to leave—to leave this den of criminals and return home.” The Child looked as though he simply couldn’t believe his ears. He knelt down to peer at the wheat sprouts, and when he stood up again he still appeared skeptical. But at least my remarks had given him hope. The Child had to approach the others with the tray and the gun, and only then would they agree, saying “As long as others say it is possible to produce ten thousand
jin
per
mu
, I believe we can plant an experimental field to achieve it.” I, however, was the only one who had approached the Child on my own accord and offered to raise ears of wheat that were even larger than ears of corn, and furthermore had sworn repeatedly that I could do so. I didn’t permit the Child to question me, though I could see he harbored some doubts. The Child continued to gaze at me half skeptically. As he was about to leave, he remarked, “If you don’t succeed, you must shoot me in the chest, so that I’ll fall forward when I die. And when I die, you must bury me here, such that the head of my grave faces east. Also, given that you are an author, you should write a book about my life after I die.”

3. Old Course, pp. 392–400

After that, the Child rarely came to the sand dune. A round trip from the ninety-ninth was about thirty
li
. The beginning of spring arrived quickly, and would pass just as quickly. At first I felt that the wheat sprouts had just a hint of green and the salt flats had just a trace of odor, but only two days later and without any warning, I woke up one night and found my shack was full of spring fragrance. The air was very humid, and everything smelled green. Because my nose was suddenly assaulted by this odor, I began sneezing violently. I lay in bed for a while, then got up and, naked, peed onto the sandy ground next to the shack. I immediately noticed that the sand dune, which had previously been completely bare, was now covered in green, interspersed with many yellow, white, blue, and purple flowers. When I looked farther out, I saw that the salt flats were no longer gray and white, but rather were now covered in green as well. Although the wasteland had no trees, many of the stumps had new growth.

The sun rose, turning the eastern sky as red as the fires along the riverbank the preceding winter. The old course of the Yellow River consisted of a salt desert that extended as far as the eye could see, but under the sunlight, green grass and wildflowers emitted a bright glow. I gazed up at the rising sun, then ran across the wild grass, hoping to be able to reach the point where the sun in the eastern sky touches the golden water of the plains. Shouting “Ah, ah!” I ran through the wilderness like a breeze. I ran down to the well where I go every morning to get water, and it was only then that I realized that I was still naked.

Embarrassed, I looked down at my lower body, then out at the empty fields, where there wasn’t a soul to be seen. There were several orioles flying in the sky, their shadows resembling black stones. Next to the wall, moist air surged up, as though it had suddenly been covered by a wet towel. I wanted to write. In fact, I
had
to write. I had already chosen the title and the opening of my true book. That is to say, it was precisely because I had spent the previous night lying awake trying to formulate the title and opening of my book that the flowers finally started to bloom and the ground came to be covered in green.

The title I came up with was
Old Course
.

I stood naked next to the well and washed my face, then I began to walk back to the shack. Even though it was the middle of spring, the early morning air still had a late winter chill. Because I had been running around outside completely naked and had stood next to the well for a long time, my entire body was covered in goose bumps. Although it was a bit cold, I still walked deliberately, in order to prolong my excitement at seeing all the flowers blooming. But as I was about to reach the shack, I suddenly sped up, and after going inside I put on some pants and a shirt. I realized that I had to quickly write the beginning of
Old Course
, before my memory of that scene began to fade. I pulled the writing desk I had cobbled together from wooden boards toward the door, then brought over a stool from behind the door. From the head of the bed I took the old newspapers that the higher-ups had told me to read and study. After laying the newspapers out on the table, I sat down, closed my mouth, and made an effort to quiet my racing heart. Once I had begun to calm myself, I knew that that pivotal moment had arrived.

With a trembling hand, I wrote the following opening passage:

“Re-Ed has China’s most distinctive scenery and history. It is like a scar on an old tree, which then becomes an eye through which one can see the world.”

In this way, I wrote the opening of
Old Course
. I reread these words and sighed, then stretched and continued dressing myself. I put on my socks and shoes, then went outside and stood on the top of the sand dune.

At that moment I felt like a powerful giant, as though I had just won a critical early battle. As the sun came up in the east, the redness flowing over the wasteland disappeared. A blindingly bright yellow light covered the sandy plateau. By this point, the sun had already risen one rod-height in the sky. Throughout the entire wasteland, which overnight had become covered in green grass and blooming flowers, an indistinct sound began to emanate forth, like the sound of falling rain. A flock of sparrows flew overhead and alighted on the hill, all singing in unison. It was only when I gazed toward the sparrows that I realized they had landed right in the middle of my wheat fields. I hurried over, but as I approached they all flew away, disappearing into the endless sky. I stood at the front of the field looking at my wheat sprouts, and saw that they had already adapted to the soil, each of them bright green with a core of blackness. They were each growing five inches apart, thereby allowing each of them to fully enjoy the rich soil and bright sunlight. In an ordinary wheat field, the sprouts are crowded together, with only enough space left between the rows for hoeing. But here, each sprout was like a small tree, with ample space between it and the others.