Ocean of Words (25 page)

“Hello,” he said into the phone again. “Is that you, Little Si Ma?… Sure, you can tell my voice. Listen, I have a serious matter to discuss with you.… It’s about Zhou Wen’s Party membership. He is a young friend of mine. I have known him for a while and he is a good soldier, a brilliant young man. For what reason haven’t you accepted him as a Party member? Isn’t he going to leave soon?”

He listened to the receiver. Then he said out loud, “What? The devil take you! That’s exactly why he can be a good Party member. What time are we in now? — the seventies of the twentieth century — and you are still so hostile to a knowledgeable man. You still have a peasant’s mind. Why does he have to stand the test longer than others? Only because he’s learned more? You have a problem in your brain, you know. Tell me, how did we Communists defeat Chiang Kai-shek? With guns? Didn’t he have American airplanes and tanks? How come our army, with only rifles plus millet, beat his eight million troops equipped with modern weapons?”

The smart secretary was babbling his answer at the other end. Zhou felt a little relieved, because the director hadn’t mentioned what he had told him.

“That’s rubbish!” Liang said. “We defeated him by having the Pen. Old Chiang only had the Gun, but we had both the Gun and the Pen. As Chairman Mao has taught us: The Gun and the Pen, we depend on both of them to make revolution and cannot afford to lose either. Are you not a Party secretary? Can’t you understand this simple truth? You have a problem here, don’t you?”

The clever secretary seemed to be admitting his fault, because the old man sounded less scathing now. “Listen, I don’t mean to give you a hard time. I’m an older soldier, and my Party membership is longer than your age, so I know what kind of people our Party really needs. We can recruit men who carry guns by the millions, easily. What we want badly is those who carry pens. My friend Zhou Wen is one of them, don’t you think?… Comrade Si Ma Lin, don’t limit your field of vision to your own yard. Our revolutionary cause is a matter of the entire world. Zhou Wen may not be good in your eyes, but to our revolutionary cause, he is good and needed. Therefore, I suggest you consider his application seriously.… Good, I’m pleased you understood it so quickly.… Good-bye now.” Liang hung up and said to Zhou, “The ass, he’s so dense.” Zhou was sweating, his heart thumping.

Director Liang’s call cleared away all obstacles. Within two weeks Zhou joined the Party. Neither Secretary Si Ma nor Chief Huang said a word alluding to the call. It seemed the secretary had not divulged to anybody the lesson he had received on the telephone. Certainly Zhou’s comrades were amazed by the sudden breakthrough, and he became more mysterious in their eyes. It was rumored that Zhou wouldn’t be discharged and instead would be promoted to officer’s rank and do propaganda work in the Divisional Political Department. But that never materialized.

The day before he left the army, Zhou went downstairs to fetch his things and say good-bye to Director Liang. No sooner had he entered the room than the old man came in holding something in his hand. It was a small rectangular box covered with purple satin. Liang placed it on the desk and said, “Take this as a keepsake.”

Zhou picked it up and opened the lid — a brown Hero pen perched in the white cotton groove. On its chunky body was
a vigorous inscription carved in golden color: “For Comrade Zhou Wen — May You Forever Hold Tight the Revolutionary Pen, Liang Ming Present.”

“I appreciate your helping my son,” the old man said.

Too touched to say a word, Zhou put the pen into his pocket. Though he had taught the boy
The Three-Character Scripture
, Liang had helped him join the Party, which was an important event in anyone’s life, like marriage or rebirth. Even without this gift, Zhou was the one who was indebted, so now he had to give something in return. But he didn’t have any valuables with him. At this moment it dawned on him that his
Ocean of Words
was in the drawer. He took it out and presented it to Liang with both hands. “You may find this useful, Director Liang.”

“Oh, I don’t want to rob you of your inheritance. You told me it’s your father’s book.” Liang was rubbing his hand on his leg.

“Please keep it. My father will be glad if he knows it’s in your hands.”

“All right, it’s a priceless treasure.” Liang’s three fingers were caressing the solid spine of the tome. “I’ll cherish it and make my son read ten pages of this good book every day.”

Zhou was ready to leave. Liang held out his hand; for the first time Zhou shook that crippled hand, which was ice cold.

“Good-bye,” Liang said, looking him in the eye. “May you have a bright future, Little Zhou. Study hard and never give up. You will be a great man, a tremendous scholar. I just know that in my heart.”

“I will study hard. Take good care of yourself, Director Liang. I’ll write to you. Good-bye.”

The old man heaved a feeble sigh and waved his hand. Zhou walked out, overwhelmed by the confidence and resolution
surging up in his chest. Outside, the air seemed to be gleaming, and the sky was blue and high. Up there, in the distance, two Chinese jet fighters were soaring noiselessly, ready to knock down any intruder. It was at this moment that Zhou made up his mind to become a socialist man of letters, fighting with the Revolutionary Pen for the rest of his life.