In the Pond (17 page)

To Yang’s amazement, Bin stood up, almost in tears, and said, “Secretary Yang, the ancients said, ‘A virtuous man should die for the lord who appreciates him, just as a good woman should dress up for the man who loves her.’ Trust me, I will work hard and live up to your expectations.”

Yang was very pleased and impressed by Bin’s sense of loyalty. With the tip of his tongue wiping his oily lips, he said, “Good, Young Shao, I trust you. Our propaganda work will depend on you.”

Before Bin left, Yang told him to get ready to start as soon as possible, since there was a lot of writing and painting to do at the administration.

* * *

After Bin told Meilan of Yang’s offer, her face fell, and a few dark wrinkles appeared on her forehead. “Did you accept it?” she said.

“Of course,” he answered.

She didn’t ask further. She got up from the chair and went out to cook dinner for herself and Shanshan. Within seconds the ladle and the wok began clattering peevishly. Realizing she was unhappy about the offer, he went out, held her bony wrist, and dragged her back into the room.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You only think of yourself and never have us in mind.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You only care about your own promotion. Where are we going to live? Still in this room?” She shook his hand off, picked up a dishrag, and went out again.

Her words struck him dumb. Obviously his head had been turned by a half victory. Why on earth had he forgotten to ask for housing? He shouldn’t have let them buy him off so easily. Now what should he do?

He went out into the corridor again, trying to comfort Meilan by saying he would think out a plan to ensure that they would have an apartment. But in his heart he had no idea what to do.

The next morning he went to the post office and called
Environment.
Yen answered the phone. He told Bin that there had also been a breakthrough in Gold County: The
newspaper would restart the next week and the bureau’s leaders agreed to increase its annual budget by twenty percent. After hearing of the new development in Dismount Fort, Yen invited Bin to a banquet at his home. He explained, “It’s not my own idea. Jiang and Song want to celebrate too. Please join us at five Friday afternoon.”

“What should I bring?” asked Bin.

“Nothing but your stomach.”

Bin promised he would come; then he mentioned the housing problem and asked Yen how he should resolve it. Yen said, “Bin, don’t rush. If they’ve bought a horse, of course they have a saddle for it. Once you become a cadre, you’ll automatically have housing. It’s only a matter of time. If I were you, I wouldn’t make a request now.”

The more Bin thought about Yen’s words, the more sense they made. An immediate request might give Secretary Yang the impression that he was too materialistic, haggling before doing any work.

For a whole day Bin kept reminding himself: You must rise with temperance. And he felt grateful to Yen, who was so knowledgeable about official life and always ready to help him.

But Meilan wasn’t easy to persuade. In the evening, when Bin explained Yen’s advice to her, she said loudly, “We’ve lived in this pigpen too long! I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Come on, just wait a year or two, all right? Every
cadre at the Commune Administration has a good place to live. Sooner or later they’ll assign us an apartment.”

“How soon? Another two years? I guess we’ll be old when—”

“Okay, a few months.”

“The truth is you are obsessed with the official position.”

“No, I’m not doing this for myself. If I hold an important job, life will be easier for our family. Don’t be silly. I don’t want to give Yang Chen a bad impression when I start. You know the first impression is always indelible.”

She lay down on the bed and covered her head with a blanket.

Ignoring her, he went about composing the letter he had promised Yang to send out. On a piece of official stationery, which he had saved for special letters, he wrote these words:

He was certain that it would be printed, because there couldn’t be a better way for the journal to display its clout and righteous spirit. The brushwork in the letter was offhand, so that the characters appeared rather graceful and cloudy.

Since Meilan didn’t want to speak to him, Bin left without a word for the post office, with the letter in his pocket. He knew her temper well and was sure that in a day or two she would be herself again.

At seven-thirty the next morning, Bin set out for his new position. He carried a shiny attaché case that Liu and Ma had presented to him as a souvenir from the plant; in the case were a bunch of brushes, the ink slab, and a book of aphorisms by famous authors and scientists. His first task was to paint a mural at the thoroughfare in town, supporting the national campaign against bourgeois liberalization. The paints and ladders were all ready in his office; he was given two helpers, hefty young men, for the work.

On his way to the Commune Administration, he couldn’t resist smiling and whistling. In the sky a flock of geese were drifting south and gradually merging into the cotton clouds. Joyously Bin stretched up his right arm, as if he too had wings.

ALSO BY
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IN

OCEAN OF WORDS: STORIES

Winner of the PEN/Hemingway Award

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Winner of the 1999 National Book Award for Fiction

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