Colors of the Mountain (42 page)

In the hall, Dia quickly spotted me. He looked sick and still had the Einstein hairstyle. His eyes were red, with dried yellow crud in the corners—which I don’t think Einstein had.

We hugged and laughed.

“You’re still alive. So which college are you shooting for?” I asked him.

“The way I’ve been doing, I think I’m heading for the agricultural specialty in my own backyard. I’ll end up learning tobacco-growing. Da, I’m thinking of taking the science tests.”

“Are you crazy? With just two days left? You know nothing about science.”

“I know nothing about liberal arts either.”

“There’s no time for that sort of wavering, Dia. Weren’t you studying at home like me?”

“I was, but it got to me. At first, I was so good. I read for eighteen hours and burned the oil all night. Naturally, I began to sleep in the daytime and get up at night. Then I got hungry, so I ended up cooking.
After I ate, I got sleepy, so I went back to take a nap. But instead of a nap, I slept for twelve hours on end, and then it was fucking nighttime again. I was totally screwed up. I couldn’t tell night from day.”

“Now you’re studying for the science tests?”

“I don’t know what I am doing, I’m finished.”

I slapped his unruly head and he shook it like a lion. “All right. I’ll do liberal arts.”

“Good. Let’s find a good seat for ourselves.”

We sat on the crowded floor with the rest of our sweaty classmates. The surface of the street could have grilled a fish and the temperature within the auditorium would have made a baker want his job back. Hundreds of eager faces were waiting for Peking Man to perform his annual ritual. Everyone was solemn, pressured by peers, family, and society to succeed. What was usually a rowdy crowd now sat quietly, as if awaiting sentencing.

Peking Man strolled in, sporting a T-shirt two sizes too small that revealed a couple of inches of his hairy potbelly and a pair of loose shorts that were cut too long. His legs were more bent than they appeared under long pants. That explained his unique side-to-side, rolling walk.

The crowd took a deep breath. It would be our first brush with the examinations; it brought a raw awakening within us.

Peking Man was silent and serious. He gazed at us with the look of a savior, a doctor.
I know your pain and I am here to take it away.

His eyes sparkled with those wild lights so rare among modern men. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but no words came out. A stutterer was a stutterer. On the third try, he made it. A loud sound filled the hall with echoes; it sounded like a cry from some ancient creature, but our hearts responded to it. It was a war cry.

“My students!” he called. “This is a battle and I am here to give you the weapons!”

Any other day, the house would have rocked with laughter at so silly a declaration, but not today. Today we believed him. It was wartime, us against the world, and it felt good to have Peking Man on our side. I felt like standing and saluting our hairy commander, the Monkey King.

“I have made my decisions after a long and hard search.” He rolled his sad eyes, then refocused them on us.

“Here are my top selections for the year.” He threw open a portable
blackboard. Written on it were four long essay questions. The crowd scribbled furiously. There was only the sound of pen fighting paper, and the noisy breathing of Peking Man, who seemed to have a loose valve somewhere, another of his unevolved organs.

He then went on to explain the tricky points hidden in the questions, piloting us through them like a seasoned sailor in troubled waters. He dodged, turned, and twisted. His logic was clear and his delivery forceful. His face gradually wrinkled into a smile. Normally when he smiled, we ducked our heads, for no one wanted to witness the display of his big yellow teeth. But this time it was comforting, in a devious way. To us, those teeth were weapons.

“Each of these questions could be worth 25 percent of the score. Nail the answers in your brain. If any of you comes out of the test missing these questions, any part of them, you will not call me your teacher anymore. Now go.” He leaned on his elbows and nodded his huge head, indicating his farewell to all our miserable souls. We rushed out of the hall for some fresh air. Another five minutes and some of us would have been carried out on stretchers.

Hundreds of others waiting outside surrounded us for tips on what had gone on inside. I dodged a few money-waving questioners, and went to say good-bye and good luck to Dia, my tortured friend. He patted my shoulder and gave me a firm handshake. We understood each other, and parted silently. As I was turning the corner, I saw Dia giving his notes to a guy waiting to buy information. The man gave him a one-yuan bill for the notes. Dia pocketed it, then turned to another eager soul. Dia would sell the questions until no one wanted them anymore. And he did, ten times.

The day before the tests, the street of Yellow Stone was alive with thousands of applicants coming to town to see the test site so that they wouldn’t get lost in the next day’s frenzy and confusion. Stone-faced militiamen walked the sealed sections of the school. The test-takers nervously looked beyond the yellow ribbon. For the well-prepared, today was the day to rest. The three long days of test-taking would be exhausting, to say the least. I saw the Head, the snob, dribbling a basketball absentmindedly, like a girl. Silently, I wished him luck: may he open his paper and not know a thing.

Others were just sitting around chatting, killing time. Han, my elementary
school enemy, wasn’t one of them. He had been studying, but the stuff was coming out from his granite head, his mom said. Today, he was sitting before a tall pile of books, not knowing which one to read. His mom said he wouldn’t eat, talk, or sleep. I also wished him luck, and hoped that he’d faint on the floor of the test site and never wake up.

Since early morning, Dad’s friends and neighbors had come by to wish us good luck. Ar Duang, whose son was Dad’s patient, carried a large basket of fruit and insisted that we eat it all so that we would have fresh minds. Jin mingled with our guests in the living room, taking it easy. I knew he would do well. He was smiling and looked relaxed. I had gotten up at five and had washed my face extra carefully. Mom and I had prayed and kowtowed before every single god in her shrine. She had just unearthed a new one called the God of Wisdom and wanted me to beg hard before him. I had slammed about ten big ones to him, and I was sure every one of them would be worth something.

I’d long been expecting this day, yet was a bit fearful now that it had finally arrived. I had been studying an average of fifteen hours a day for the last ten months. Now it was coming to an end. The lump in my throat grew bigger. When Mom asked me how I felt, I pumped up my confidence and said that if I kowtowed a little harder, some of my knowledge might spill out.

She smiled.

I was the only one from the town of Yellow Stone to register as an English major; only eight others in the commune were taking that major. So the National Examination Commission decided to lump us together and have all nine of us take the entire three-day exam in the city of Putien, where our final subject exam, English, was to be given.

Mom carefully prepared a large plate of fried rice noodles with leeks, oysters, and eggs, along with some meat soup, for my breakfast. She said the rice noodles were crisp, and so should all my tests be. Dad slipped a roll of money into my pocket tightly held by rubber bands, about ten yuan in total. It was surely the last pot of money left in our family, unless it had been borrowed. I looked at Dad. His wizened face had the kindest smile. He searched for something to say but was at a loss, and so he squeezed my shoulder, then turned away. I felt my eyes moisten.

Everyone in my family silently watched me pack a foldable bamboo mat, a sack of rice, my chopsticks, a rice pot, two bags of books, and some clothes. My youngest sister, Huang, was pumping air into a borrowed old bike. She would be giving me a ride to Putien. It felt as if they were sending me off to the battlefield, a place so far away that my family couldn’t be with me. There was an inner sadness, but I didn’t show it. I was sixteen. I threw my luggage over my back, pushed out my chest, and smiled broadly at everyone. I wanted to tell them by my actions that I was brave and ready to take on the enemy.

Right before I stepped into the street, I turned and ran upstairs to my window. I knelt down and begged my grandfather to come with me to Putien and watch over me as I wrote the answers. He had loved me so deeply and had expected so much of me. It was he who had taught me the first strokes of calligraphy, his hands over mine. I needed him now more than ever. I told him that I would do honor to his name and that all his sufferings at the end of his life were not in vain because they had given me strength and would be the basis of all my success. Tears filled my eyes as I called on his spirit again and again.

On the way to Putien, Huang and I talked for a while, then I took out my flash cards to review the English conjugations. I remembered them so well I was sick of them, but I was terrified my memory might suddenly fail and all that knowledge disappear without a trace. We arrived at Hillside High School at the edge of Putien after three hours of hard pedaling against a head wind. The school was temporarily converted into a camp for the test-takers from around the county. I followed the sign and found my name on the door of a dark classroom. I settled in and sent my sister home before sunset.

It was a zoo. At least a thousand students were bunking there for the next three days. The kitchen was overcrowded. I had put my rice pot in the steamer in the afternoon; it took me half an hour to locate it at dinnertime. I ate my cold rice with dried fish on the lawn in the playground and stared at the stars. I had intended to do some studying before going to sleep, but it was impossible. There was no light, no room, and I was constantly surrounded by a mob of mosquitoes. Like the city people, the mosquitoes here were sleazy. Their snouts drilled like needles and their sting stayed with you for a long time.

My room had a dim fifteen-watt lightbulb, two tiny windows, a dirt floor, dirty walls, and thirty sleepers. We were a bunch of strangers, but our backs were rubbing against each other. Lying there, we looked like a raft stitched together with old rope. The guy on my left came from the mountains and didn’t believe in washing his body too often. Sweat was the least of the foul smells coming from him. The diminutive guy on my left farted throughout the night, and had the runs. And the mosquitoes buzzed all night long. When I woke the next morning I found numerous bites all over my body, including two on my eyelid.

Daylight finally came. I crept to a quiet spot and knelt down for a brief prayer, then fought my way through the kitchen, this time easily finding my rice pot. The trick was to put it in late and get it out early. I slowly swallowed half the rice I had steamed and left the other half uneaten.

The first test was Chinese. I was ready.

At seven-thirty, a man led the nine of us English majors on a mile-long hike. We found our test site at the top of a hill and waited outside like runners at the starting line, ready to dash as soon as the bell rang. Rich kids arrived with their bigshot daddies in cars that left a dusty trail. City boys had long greased hair, fashionable clothes; the girls had long silky legs, partially covered by flowing skirts. I wore a yellowed cutoff shirt, a straw hat, shorts, and was barefoot. Nobody looked my way, as if they had sized me up in a second and immediately dismissed me as an ignorant country bumpkin in the wrong crowd. But I stood there, bare feet and all, sure of what I knew. Nobody said I couldn’t take the test because I wore shabby clothes and had no shoes. Before the test, all were equal. Besides, I was dressed in my Sunday best.

It was fifteen minutes to test time. I saw frightened looks on the faces of hundreds of test-takers crowding beside me. White-robed nurses were walking around, waiting for people to collapse; they were ready to scoop them into a waiting ambulance. The cops were wearing loaded firearms to quell possible unrest. I wondered why. Did we look like a bunch of looters?

I was thirsty, dizzy, weak, tired, and felt the need to go to the bathroom again despite having visited it only five minutes ago. I closed my
eyes and prayed in silence as I waited in agony for the time to pass. Grandpa, dear Grandpa, help me now.

The bell brought me back to reality. I ran into my test room, sat in my numbered seat, and closed my eyes again before opening my sealed questions. I felt like puking. My hands were trembling.

The proctor, a bespectacled bald man, nodded at me with a kind smile.

“You may start now,” he said.

I broke the seal with my pen. As I focused my eyes on the first question, there was a sudden rush of blood to my head. My mind went blank, and I had to grit my teeth and grip my table to let the feeling pass. No wonder some people were carried out by ambulance. I didn’t want to be one of them. Slowly, the darkness receded. I read and reread the question and wrote down the first answer of the day.

The test lasted for four hours and ended with a long composition that was worth 45 percent of the test. I came out smiling to myself. The first thing I did was head for a quiet corner to kneel and thank all the good gods who had helped me through this first test.

I saw others, strangers to each other, chatting and talking excitedly. I didn’t want to get involved. It was over.

I stayed on the hilltop under a tall tree, munched on some dried fish, drank some water, and reviewed my history flash cards. There was a guard sitting near me. I gave him a Flying Horse and asked him to wake me if he found me dozing off and to make sure I wasn’t late for the test. At ten minutes to two, I put away my history book and looked for signs of the guard. He was snoring away like a buffalo, his lips twitching. Obviously he was having an erotic dream of some sort. Too many young females taking the test were wearing too many enticing skirts.

I smiled from ear to ear when I opened my history paper. Peking Man had guessed two of the four questions. Each would bring me 15 percent of the total score. I let out an animal cry of ecstasy as I left the room, then danced down the stairs. Others watched as though I were crazy. Long live the Peking Man!