In the Pond (16 page)

As though the poem triggered his lachrymal glands, all at once his face was flooded with tears. How he regretted wasting his time on those hoodlums! Why couldn’t he concentrate on the real work and forget the turmoil outside? What good was getting the better of those idiots, who shouldn’t have existed for him in the first place? Why couldn’t he utilize his talent and energy exclusively for the improvement of his arts? For whatever reason, he should never have let his brushwork regress.

Shanshan noticed her father’s tears and sang out, “Mommy, Daddy’s crying again.”

Meilan came over and patted him on the shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“My brush, oh, my brush becomes disobedient!” he wailed, rubbing his chest with both hands.

His wife broke out giggling, and Shanshan followed her mother, laughing too. Bin gazed at them, his face dark and long.

Meilan said to him, “I thought heaven collapsed or your mistress dropped dead. You scared us.”

“What’s so funny? I’m losing my mastery, my artistic power. Don’t you see it?” He slapped the sheet of poor calligraphy on the desk.

“Stop talking like that.” She didn’t look at the characters. Instead, she took a towel and wiped the saliva off Shanshan’s mouth. “You just had a bad day. Keep practicing. Nothing is as easy as eating noodles.”

Somehow her casual remark enlightened him. Indeed this may be just a bad day, he thought. Probably it’s only a painter’s block. No artistic pursuit can be smooth sailing. It’s a lifelong endeavor, and I mustn’t lose heart so easily just because of temporary regression. I must persevere.

He struck a match, lighted a cigarette, and blew out a coil of smoke.

On payday Bin received his full wages. He took this as an initial victory. “If they gave me a fen less, I would shake heaven and earth,” he told his fellow workers. Everybody was impressed, but some people still believed Bin had faked the sick-leave certificate. “Even the devil can be intimidated by a vile man,” they said behind his back.

In fact the leaders were not frightened by Bin exactly, though they had called the County Central Hospital and spoken to Doctor Sun, who assured him that the sick-leave certificate was as genuine as their fertilizers. They were lenient to Bin this time for another reason. Three days ago they had received a classified bulletin which reported a tragedy that had resulted from a wage-scale adjustment. An old worker in Forever New Leather Mill in Sand County had lost his mind because most of his comrades had got a raise but he hadn’t. To vent his rage on the mill’s leaders, he blew up a corner of the apartment building where their families lived. Though nobody was killed, four people were seriously injured. Fortunately the old worker hadn’t had access to TNT and had made do with a gunpowder package.

Unlike the leather mill, the Dismount Fort plant’s Fourth Workshop produced high explosives for the army. Dynamite was always available to the workers here; quite a few men fished with homemade bombs; the year before last, an old storekeeper had been sentenced to eight years because he had in secret sold half a ton of TNT to a quarry and pocketed the cash. No doubt to Liu and Ma, Bin was insane and capable of doing anything, not to mention razing a house in Workers’ Park. The bulletin gave full rein to their imagination, so they revoked the order to have three days’ pay deducted from Bin’s wages.

T
HREE WEEKS LATER
an article about the case, entitled “Engulfed by the Evil Stream,” came out in
Law and Democracy.
On his first reading of it, Bin was rather disappointed. The view and the tone of the writing were fine, but the report was too short, merely one and a half pages; the limited space wouldn’t impress the reader. To Bin’s mind, such an article should have been massive.

After reading it for the second time, though, he felt better and found it actually well written, even fiercely elegant. In fact, none of the main events and figures was left out. Reading it for the third time, he was impressed by the skill of the writer, who hadn’t wasted a word, as though doing a poet’s job.

His friends in Gold County were very pleased with the article. Yen called and said excitedly, “Brother Shao, this time we nabbed them. The County Administration
wanted to talk with Old Jiang yesterday evening. Boy, they’re scared.”

“Good,” said Bin.

Yen went on, “It’s a victory, and they’ll have to rehabilitate every one of us soon. Get ready for it, Brother. Don’t let them off the hook easily.”

Secretary Yang was shaken by the article and became restless. Intuitively he realized the whole thing would grow bigger and bigger if he didn’t take action to stop it. The article’s last sentence said clearly, “We are waiting with our eyes open to see how the local leaders will respond to this report.” So he had to correct the case in time, to prevent the highest authority in the capital from pursuing him further.

His aide, Dong Cai, reported that Chairman Ding had ordered his men to investigate the case and interview Bin. Surely the enemy faction would use this article to destroy Yang, driving him out of Dismount Fort.

After brief consideration, Yang concluded that Bin was the key figure in the series of events. If he could pacify Bin, the Ding faction would be automatically stopped. By now he was very impressed by Bin’s ability — not only as an artist but also as a political activist. Nobody else in the entire commune was able to get the attention of all levels of authorities and have his case printed in such a top legal journal. Eight months before, when he
had read the report on Bin sent over by the fertilizer plant, Yang had thought Bin was no more than a crazed bookworm, of whom he had met many and had known how to handle them. Now he deeply regretted having neglected the talent in this small man.

In reality, Yang’s faction was not as strong as Ding’s, mainly because Chairman Ding had in his hands most of the writers in the commune and could maneuver without impediment in the field of propaganda. Yet Yang bet none of those pens in Ding’s faction was as capable as Shao Bin, who could place articles and works of art in big newspapers and magazines with such ease. If only he had enlisted Bin’s help.

He telephoned the Commune Guesthouse to have two dinners arranged. Then he had Dong Cai come in and told him to find Bin and take him to the guesthouse in the evening.

The first dinner started at three in the afternoon, in honor of the fertilizer plant’s leaders. Two days before, Liu and Ma had read the article and got angry as usual, but they hadn’t taken it as something that would cause any change. Bin remained the same maniac to them, and they wouldn’t try to “rectify their mistakes” as the article demanded. By now they were somewhat used to this kind of warning from the media, which had always come like lightning without a storm.

The spacious dining hall in the guesthouse was empty, with all the chairs propped upside down on the tables. The terrazzo floor was wet and sprinkled with sawdust, which made the room smell of pine and cypress. Behind a set of sky blue screens on which white cranes were on the wing, the three diners — Yang, Liu, and Ma — sat down at a table covered with a green plastic tablecloth. They were going to eat prawn soup, crabs, and steamed buns stuffed with brown sugar.

“Since you both have read the article, what do you think we should do?” Yang asked.

“Believe me, Secretary Yang,” said Ma, “Shao Bin is a mere lunatic. We should send him to a mental home.”

Liu chimed in, “Yes, that will solve the problem once and for all. We’re just fed up with him. He enjoys pestering others so much. Do you know what his nickname is in our plant?

“What?”

“Man Hater.”

“We should have him locked up,” Ma insisted.

“No, no.” Yang shook his head, chuckling. “He isn’t a lunatic. Even if he was, the whole of China knows of the case now, and we couldn’t punish him without hurting ourselves.”

The soup came in a white enamel basin, and the crabs and the sugar buns in two bamboo baskets. Liu and Ma remained silent, drinking brandy in gulps.

After the waitresses left, Yang resumed, “I’m positive Shao Bin is an able man. We must stop him; otherwise we’ll all lose our jobs, or at least be demoted. The whole boat is in danger now. Chairman Ding will surely use this case to root us out. They’re already on the move.”

Both Liu and Ma were shocked, but they had no idea what to do, so they kept sucking crab claws.

Yang went on, “Ever since the ancient times, there have been two ways to get out of such a situation. One is punishment, the other is reward.” He paused to take a spoonful of soup.

Seeing Liu’s surprised look, Yang smiled and said, “Don’t panic. I’ve decided to use reward. I’m going to be generous to Shao Bin. This is the only way to appease him now. Besides, I want to use him and make him our man, to keep him in our pond. But I’ll have to punish you two in appearance. You’ll be criticized in the internal bulletin. Don’t be upset. Next year, I promise, you each will get a raise.”

Yang went on explaining how he would reward Bin. Though both Liu and Ma thought Yang took the maniac too seriously, they were pleased that the secretary would take Bin into his own hands. From now on, they would be able to do many things in the plant without being painted and written about. As long as there was no disciplinary action against them, their official careers would be safe. Criticism in the internal bulletin would at most
inflict a scratch on them, and people would forget it in a month. So without delay they praised Secretary Yang’s wise, timely decision.

Before he left for the dinner, Bin whispered to Meilan in the corridor that if he didn’t return that night, she mustn’t go to the plant or the Commune Administration to look for him. Instead, she should get in touch with Yen, either by telephone or by telegram, and ask him to take emergency measures to get him out. Seeing that she was horrified by his words, he grinned and assured her that the invitation might be a reconciliatory sign from Yang. He then set off with Dong Cai, who had come to escort him to the Commune Guesthouse.

At the sight of Bin, Secretary Yang stood up and came across the dining hall to meet him. Holding Bin’s hand, he said, “I’m sorry, Comrade Young Shao. I was at a meeting just now and couldn’t go to your home to invite you in person.” He smiled amiably, the mole on his nose quivering like a bee.

The warmth Yang showed put Bin at ease instantly, though Bin still couldn’t fathom what this meant. The dishes on the green tablecloth looked so appetizing, especially the pair of smoked yellow croakers and the braised pork cheek that had been sliced and arranged into a large lotus.

“Sit here,” Dong said to Bin, pulling a chair closer to the table.

As soon as they sat down Yang raised a glass of Jade Spring wine and proposed a toast, “To your glorious future, Young Shao.”

Following Yang and Dong, Bin took a sip, weighing the word
glorious.
He couldn’t help wondering whether there was poison in the red wine and regretted having drunk it. But he curbed his fantasy, telling himself that they dared not poison him so soon. He put down the glass carefully as Yang pointed his chopsticks at the dishes, saying, “Please help yourself.”

Though still baffled, Bin ate a piece of the smoked fish Dong had put on his plate. Then Yang began to apologize for interceding for him so late, but he swore by his Party member’s conscience that he hadn’t been involved in persecuting him, that there was a lot of misunderstanding between them, and that he had reprimanded the plant’s leaders. Bin thought Yang was scared. Damn you, he said in his mind, you also have fearful moments. It’s too late to extricate yourself.

“Comrade Shao Bin,” Yang said, chewing a pine mushroom, “I know you’re an artist and a learned scholar. To take advantage of your knowledge and talent, I’ve decided to transfer you to the Commune Administration. Your rank will be the twenty-second, and you’ll have your own office and do propaganda work.” Yang smiled, observing Bin’s eyes blinking at him. He went on, “You shouldn’t remain in the fertilizer plant and waste your talent like this. I hope you accept my offer.”

“Yes, I do, I do.” Bin sounded beside himself, and he lifted the glass and drained it to conceal his excitement.

Immediately Dong refilled the glass. With his two gold teeth guttering in the fluorescent light, Dong said, “Congratulations, Young Shao. Welcome to our team.”

“Thanks.”

“But there’re two small things I’d like you to do,” Yang said. “Number one, you should stop fighting with Liu Shu and Ma Gong. You and they are all revolutionary comrades and will be colleagues; you shouldn’t waste your energy and time this way. We live in the same water and can’t snap at each other all the time. In a word, save your energy to fight our enemy. Number two, if you’re satisfied with the job transfer, please write a short letter to the editors of
Law and Democracy
and tell them our Commune Administration has corrected the mistake and you are satisfied with the result.”

Neither of the demands seemed hard to meet. Both Ma and Liu were of the twenty-first rank, but they wouldn’t dare offend Bin anymore, because he was going to work above them at the Commune Administration. Besides, he had friends in the county town now. Without thinking further, Bin said, “I will do both.”

Yang smiled and proposed another toast.

Dong Cai began talking to Bin about the advantages of working at the Commune Administration, especially under the leadership of Secretary Yang; but Bin ought to be
careful when dealing with Chairman Ding and the people close to Ding, particularly Tian Biao, the director of the General Affairs Section.

The yellow croakers were fresh and crispy, and within half an hour Dong and Bin had almost finished the pair of big fish; Secretary Yang didn’t eat much and only drank the wine. Bin couldn’t help wondering who the chef was who could cook such a delicious dish, but he didn’t ask. He would find this out by himself.

Overwhelmed by the promotion, Bin couldn’t help smiling and nodding to Yang and Dong again and again. He kept doing this until Yang said he had another meeting to attend and proposed the last toast. “To our solidarity,” he said. They clinked glasses and drank up.