The Bridegroom (13 page)

The next morning Nimei got up early and went jogging on the playground at the middle school nearby. For the first time she put on the rubber sneakers her husband had bought her three years ago. Jiang Bing was pleased to see that at last she began to take care of her health. Time and again he had advised her to join him in practicing tai chi on the riverbank in the morning with a group of old people, but she disliked “the shadowboxing,” which looked silly to her, like catching fish in the air. That morning Jiang Bing went to the riverside with an enamel basin, and he stayed there for almost an hour exercising and chatting with friends, but he didn’t find any carp for sale. Instead, he bought a three-pound whitefish, which he carried home and kept alive in a vat of rainwater. Songshan fed the fish a piece of pancake before setting out for school.

Jiang Bing didn’t take a break at noon. After lunch he returned to his office immediately and resumed working at account books. He left work an hour and a half early. The moment he reached home, he put on his purple apron and began cooking the fish. He scooped it out of the vat and laid it on the chopping board. It writhed, its tail slapping the board noisily, its mouth wide open, as though it were trying to disgorge its innards. He struck it three times with the side of a cleaver. The fish stopped wiggling.

Having scaled and gutted it, he rinsed it twice with clean water. He heated half a wok of vegetable oil on a kerosene stove and put in the fish to fry for a few minutes. Meanwhile, he chopped its gills and innards to bits for the chickens and then washed clean the knife and the board.

The deep-frying had gotten rid of the fish’s earthy smell. Next he boiled it in plain water. As the pot was bubbling, he sliced a chunk of peeled ginger, diced a thick scallion, crushed four large cloves of garlic, poured half a cup of cooking wine, and took out the sugar jar and the sesame oil bottle. He used a scrap of newspaper to get a fire from the stove and lit a cigarette. Sitting on a bench and waving a bamboo fan, he gave a toothy smile to his mother-in-law, who had been watching the boiling pot with bulging eyes. Not until the broth turned milky did he put in the spices and the vegetables, all at once. After adding a touch of salt and a spoon of sesame oil, he turned off the fire, ladled up a bit of the soup, and tasted it. “Yummy,” he said and smacked his thin lips.

The old woman asked, “It’s not a holiday today, why cook the fish in such a fancy way?”

“My job, Mother. I’m helping Nimei.”

“She’s forgotten who she is, totally spoiled. She has a princess’s heart but a maid’s fortune.”

At five-thirty Jiang Bing arrived at Nimei’s office with a dinner pail. Together the couple went to Room 3. The patient gave them a lukewarm greeting, but at the sight of the fish soup, his eyes brightened. Having tried two spoonfuls, he exclaimed, “I’ll be damned, who made this? What a beautiful job!”

“He did.” Nimei pointed at her husband. “He used to be a mess officer in the army, so he knows how to cook fish. I’m so glad you like the soup.”

“Thank you, Young Jiang.” The patient stretched out his right hand while chewing noisily. Gingerly Jiang Bing held Liao’s thick thumb and gave it a shake.

Nimei said, “Be careful, Director Liao. Don’t eat the head or suck the bones, and don’t eat too much for the time being. Your stomach needs time to recover.”

“I know—or this wouldn’t be enough.” The patient gave a belly laugh.

Every morning from then on, Jiang Bing got up early and went to the riverside to buy fish. Sometimes he bought a silver carp, sometimes a pike, sometimes a catfish; once he got a two-pound crucian, which he smoked. Each day he cooked the fish in a different way, and his dishes pleased the director greatly. Soon Jiang Bing ran out of money. When he told Nimei he had spent all their wages, she suggested he withdraw two hundred yuan from their savings account. He did, and day after day he continued to make the fancy dishes. In the meantime, Nimei kept jogging for half an hour every morning. She even borrowed from the hospital’s gym (its supervisor was a friend of hers) a pair of small dumbbells, which she exercised with at home. Although she had lost little weight, ten days later her muscles were firmer and her face less flabby. Her jaw had begun to show a fine contour. She said to herself, You should’ve started to exercise long ago. That would’ve kept you tighter and smaller. A healthy body surely makes the heart feel younger.

A few times Director Liao wanted to pay Nimei for the fish, but she refused to accept any money from him, saying, “It’s my job to take care of my patients.”

Gradually the director and Jiang Bing got to know each other. Every day after Liao finished dinner, Jiang would stay an hour or two, chatting with the leader, who unfailingly turned talkative after a good meal. The nurses were amazed that the patient in Room 3 had mellowed so much. When they asked Nimei why her husband came at dinnertime every day, she said that Liao and Jiang Bing knew each other from before. Of course nobody believed her, but the nurses were glad that at last the patient’s manners and attitude became wholesome, and even avuncular. Nimei claimed Director Liao paid for the fish he ate.

The bricks arrived, a cartful of them, drawn over by three Mongolian ponies. Nimei paid for them promptly and gave the driver two packs of Great Production cigarettes.

For an entire weekend the couple leveled the ground and laid the bricks. Nimei wanted the yard to be paved neatly, so Jiang Bing hammered wooden stakes into the dirt and tied white threads to them to make sure the bricks would be set in straight lines. It was an unusually hot day for the fall, and the couple were soaked with sweat. Nimei’s mother cooked a large pot of mung bean soup for them, to relieve their inner heat and prevent sunstroke. She put white sugar into the soup and ladled it into five bowls, which were placed on a long bench to cool.

The work was done and Nimei was pleased, despite her painful back. But her mother tottered around with her bound feet, muttering, “What a waste of money! We’ve never used such good bricks for a house.”

Nimei ignored her, too exhausted to talk, while Jiang Bing was sipping a bowl of soup, his bony shoulders stooping more than before. A lock of hair, sweaty and gray, stuck to his flat forehead. The sweat-stained back of his shirt looked like an old map. A few maple seeds swirled in the air like helicopter blades while a pair of magpies clamored atop the ridge of the gable roof. Nimei’s mother kept saying, “We’ll have to spend a lot of money for winter vegetables, and we ought to save for the Spring Festival.”

Save your breath, old hag! thought Nimei.

The next day she bought two large pots of wild roses and had them placed on both sides of the front gate. She assigned her daughter to water the flowers every morning.

Director Liao was going to leave the hospital in two days. He was grateful to the couple and even said they had treated him better than his family.

On Tuesday afternoon he had the head nurse called in. He said, “Nimei, I can’t thank you enough!”

“It’s my job. Please don’t mention it.”

“I’ve told the hospital’s leaders that they should elect you a model nurse this year. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, I don’t need anything,” she said. “Jiang Bing and I are very happy that you’ve recovered so soon.”

“Ah yes, how about Young Jiang? Can I do something for him?”

She pretended to think for a minute. “Well, maybe. He’s worked in the same office for almost ten years. He may want a change. But don’t tell him I said this or he’ll be mad at me.”

“I won’t say a word. Do you think he wants to leave the hospital?”

“No, he likes it here. Just moving him to another office would be enough.”

“Is there a position open?”

“Yes, there are two—the Personnel and the Security sections haven’t had directors for months.”

“Good. I’m going to write a note to the hospital leaders. They’ll take my suggestion seriously. Tell Young Jiang I’ll miss his fish.”

They both laughed.

Everything seemed to be going as Nimei had planned. Hsu Peng had written back and said he would be happy to come to her house for tea. She was certain Jiang Bing’s promotion would work out, because none of the hospital leaders would dare disobey Director Liao, whose department decided their promotions and demotions. If Jiang Bing became the chief of a section, he’d hold a rank equal to a vice regimental commander’s, which, although still several ranks lower than Hsu Peng’s, shouldn’t be too unpresentable. True, the promotion hadn’t materialized yet, but she could be confident it was already in the works. In addition, her daughter had just been notified that a nursing school in Jilin City had admitted her. Nimei felt she could finally meet Hsu Peng without embarrassment.

On the evening of September 29, a Beijing jeep pulled up at the Jiangs’ gate. At the sound of the motor, Nimei got up, patting her permed hair, and went out to receive the guest. To her surprise, two soldiers walked in, one shouldering a kraft-paper parcel and the other holding a large, green plastic gasoline can. “Is this Head Nurse Nimei’s home?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” she said eagerly, her left hand fingering the belt of her chemise, which was flowered and brand-new. Her husband came out and joined her.

The taller soldier declared, “Our commissar cannot come this evening. He’s very sorry. He has to accompany Commander Chen of Shenyang Military Region to a party.”

“Oh.” Nimei was too flustered to say another word.

The man went on, “Commissar Hsu ordered us to deliver the fish and the soy oil to you for National Day.” With two thuds they dropped the parcel and the can on a low table in the yard.

“Will he be coming to see us?” she asked.

“No. We’re leaving for Harbin on the earliest train tomorrow morning.”

“Who’s this commissar?” Jiang Bing asked his wife.

“A former patient of mine, as I told you,” she managed to reply. She turned to the soldiers. “Tell your leader we thank him.”

“How much?” Jiang Bing asked them, still puzzled.

“Our commissar said not to take any money.”

The young men turned and went out. Then came a long honk and children’s cries—the jeep was drawing away.

The parcel was unwrapped and four salmon appeared, each weighing at least fifteen pounds. One of them still had a three-inch hook stuck through its nostril, with a short piece of fishing line attached to the hook’s eye. “Oh my, what sort of fish are these?” asked Nimei’s mother, mouthing a long pipe and smiling broadly. The boy and the girl gathered at the table, watching their father spreading the gills to see the scarlet color inside.

“These are salmon, Mother,” said Jiang Bing. Then he announced with a thrill in his voice, “They’re as fresh as if they were alive! Too bad Director Liao has left the hospital. These are the best fish, but he doesn’t have the luck.” He asked his wife, “How come I’ve never met this commissar?”

“He commands an armored division somewhere in Harbin. The fish and the oil probably didn’t cost him anything, I guess.” She felt like weeping.

“Of course not. If you have power, you can always get the best stuff free.” He flicked a bluebottle away with his fingers. “Songshan, get me the largest basin, quick.”

The boy turned, a half-eaten peach in his hand, and ran toward their shack to fetch the washbasin.

Nimei couldn’t suppress her tears anymore. She hurried into the house and threw herself on her bed. She broke out sobbing, unsure whether Hsu Peng had ever intended to visit her.

A Bad Joke

At last the two jokers were captured. They didn’t know the police were after them, so they had come to town without any suspicion. The instant they entered Everyday Hardware, a group of policemen sprang at them, pinned them to the cement floor, and handcuffed them from behind. With stupefied faces smeared by sawdust, they screamed, “You’re making a mistake, Comrade Policemen! We didn’t steal anything!”

“Shut up!”

“Ugh . . .”

The police plugged their mouths with washcloths from a bucket and then hauled them out to the white van waiting on the street.

At the city’s police station the interrogation started immediately. It didn’t go well, though, because the two peasants denied that they had spread any counterrevolutionary slander. The police chief, a bespectacled, pockmarked man, reminded them of the joke they had told. To everyone’s astonishment, the tall peasant asked the chief, “Who’s Deng Xiaoping? I never met him.” He turned to his buddy. “Have you?”

“Uh-uh. I guess he must be a general or a big official,” said the short peasant.

“Stop pretending!” the chief shouted. “Comrade Deng Xiaoping is the chairman of our Party and our country.”

“Really?” the tall peasant asked. “You mean he’s number one now?”

“Yes.”

“How about Chairman Mao? We only know Chairman Mao.”

“He passed away six years ago. You didn’t know?”

“Are you sure?” the short peasant cried. “I didn’t know he’s dead. He’s the Emperor to us—no, more like a granddad. His portrait still hangs in my home.”

The police officers tried hard to refrain from laughing. The chief looked thoughtful. Before the interrogation, he had thought he could easily handle this pair of yokels. Now it was obvious they were smart fellows, playing the fool to dodge the charge. He’d better dismiss them for today—it was already late afternoon—so that he could figure out a way to make them admit their crime. He ordered the guards to take the two away and put them in a cell.

Seven weeks ago, the two peasants had gone to Sunlight Department Store on Peace Avenue. “Can we take a look at the rubber loafers?” the tall peasant asked at the counter, drumming his thick fingers on the glass top.

Three salesgirls were sitting on a broad window ledge, silhouetted against the traffic lights on the street. They stopped chatting and one of them got up and came over. “What size?” she asked.

“Forty-two,” said the tall man.

She handed him a pair. Pointing at the price tag, she said, “Five-fifty.”

“What?” the short peasant exclaimed. “Last month it was five yuan a pair. How come it’s five-fifty now? Ten percent inflation in a month? Crazy!”

“Five-fifty,” said the girl, annoyed. She twitched her nose, which had the shape of a large garlic clove.

“Too expensive for this old man,” said the tall peasant, who was in his mid-thirties. He dropped the shoes on the counter with a thump.

As the two men walked away, the tall one spat on the floor and said loudly to his buddy, “Damn, all the prices go up—only our chairman never grows.”

The short man grinned. “Yeah, that dwarf won’t change.”

Hearing their words, the salesgirls all tittered. The peasants turned around and took off their blue caps, waving and smiling at the girls, their swarthy faces marked with big parentheses.

Within an hour, a joke was circulating in the department store: “All the prices go up, but Deng Xiaoping never grows.” Within a day, thousands of people in our city had heard the joke. Like a spook it soon began haunting offices, factories, restaurants, theaters, bathhouses, alleys, neighborhoods, train stations.

The two peasants slept well in the cell, happy for the free dinner of sorghum porridge and stewed pumpkin, but they still had no inkling of what crime they had committed. At 9:00
A.M.
the three salesgirls arrived at the police station. One of them was ordered to repeat what she had heard the jokers say. She pointed at the tall man’s concave face and testified, “He said, ‘All the prices go up, but Deng Xiaoping never grows.’ ”

“Goddamn it!” the man shouted and slapped his knee, his slanty eyes flashing. “I never heard of him. How could I ever come up with that weird name?”

The short man cut in, “We never mentioned him. We said, ‘Our chairman never will change.’ ”

“What did you say exactly?” asked the bald policeman in charge of the team of detectives.

The tall peasant replied, “ ‘All the prices go up and only our chairman never grows.’ I meant our Chairman Lou—of our commune.”

The short peasant added, “Dwarf Lou is an awful man. We all hate him. He wouldn’t let us have more than one and a half yuan for a day’s work, ’cause he wants to use the money to build a reservoir for catfish and big-headed carp. What can little shrimps like us get from a reservoir? Not even fish droppings. Everybody knows all the fish will end up in the officials’ bellies. If you don’t believe me, you go check and see if Chairman Lou is a dwarf.” He gave a broad grin, displaying his carious teeth.

A few men and women chuckled, but they turned silent at the sight of the interrogators’ somber faces.

The chief asked the salesgirls to recall the original words of the joke. To his bewilderment, they remembered that the tall peasant had indeed said “our chairman never grows.” In fact, when they relayed the words to others, they hadn’t mentioned Deng Xiaoping either. Somehow in the process of dissemination, the joke had changed into its present monstrous form. Could this whole thing have originated from a misinterpretation? Perhaps, and perhaps not.

The interrogators were at a loss now. How could they determine when and where the joke had shed its original ambiguity and acquired its definitive meaning? It was unlikely that their superiors would accept misinterpretation as the explanation for what had happened. The crime was already a fait accompli. And how could there be a crime without a criminal? Even though a deliberate misinterpreter might never be identified, someone had to be responsible for the final version of the joke. So, how should they proceed with the interrogation?

Again the chief had the peasants returned to the cell. He then sent a jeep to their commune to fetch Chairman Lou.

Everybody was impressed by Chairman Lou’s good looks: a round forehead, ivory teeth, curved brows, large eyes shaded by miniature fans of lashes. What a handsome and intelligent face he had! If he were not three foot two, you could easily have taken him for a movie star. In addition, he had dignified manners, and his voice sounded so elegant that anyone could tell he was well educated. Small wonder that even with such a deformed physique he could govern a large commune. At noon he met with the police chief and said, “Look, Comrade Chief, you ought to punish the two hooligans, teach them an indelible lesson. Else how can I lead thirty-one thousand people? In the countryside no leader can afford to be the butt of ridicule.”

“I can sympathize with that,” said the chief. “In fact, last week the provincial governor called our city and asked about this case. Probably Beijing already knows of it too.”

At 2:10
P.M.
the interrogation resumed. A few minutes after they sat down in the room, the two peasants insisted that they were wronged and should be released. They declared they both came from poor families and always loved the Party and the socialist motherland, though they had not been active in political studies and were ignorant of current affairs. They promised the chief that they would take great pains to educate themselves and would never make trouble again. The first thing they’d do after their release, they said, was buy a radio so that they could keep up with news.

The chief waved his hand to cut them off. “You still refuse responsibility for the slander against Chairman Deng? Then how could I let you go? Your attitude is not right.”

“Heavens!” the short peasant wailed. “This is a misunderstanding. Comrade Policeman, please—”

“That’s irrelevant,” the chief said. “Look at it this way. Say that a sentence in a book can be read in different ways and some people get a reactionary meaning out of it. Now, who should be responsible for the reading—the writer or the reader?”

“Mmm . . . probably the writer,” said the tall man.

“Correct. All the evidence shows you two coauthored the slander, so you have to answer for all the consequences.”

“Does this mean you won’t let us go home?” asked the short man.

“Correct.”

“How long are you going to jail us?”

“It depends—a month, maybe life.”

“What?” the tall peasant shouted. “I haven’t thatched my house for the winter yet. My kids will freeze to death if you keep me in—”

“You still don’t get it!” Chairman Lou bellowed and slapped the tabletop with his fleshy hand. “You both should feel lucky that you’re still alive. How many people were executed because they spread counterrevolutionary rumors? Keep your butts in prison here, and remold yourselves into new men. I’ll have your families informed of where to send your underwear, if you have any.”

In amazement, all eyes turned to look at the little man standing on an upholstered chair. Unshod, his large feet were in violet woolen socks.

The chief ordered the guards, “Send them to the City Prison and put them among the political criminals.” He took off his glasses, smirking and wiping the lenses on the sleeve of his shirt. True, he couldn’t pass a definite sentence on the jokers, because the length of their imprisonment would depend on how long the Provincial Administration was interested in this case.

“Chairman Lou, have mercy, please,” begged the tall man.

Lou said, “It serves you right. See if you dare to be so creative again.”

“I do it to your little ancestors, Dwarf Lou!” the short peasant yelled, stamping his feet. Four policemen walked up, grabbed the prisoners, and hauled them away.