Three Sisters (31 page)

Yuyang was experiencing a hard-to-describe sense of loss. She knew she was jealous of Fenghua. Never one to compete with others, she nevertheless secretly felt that she was a match for Fenghua; but now, though hard to believe, she paled in comparison. The other girls in class were whispering that, thanks to special tutoring by their homeroom teacher, Fenghua had even learned to understand Misty Poetry. That was no small feat. Obviously she'd made considerable progress.

But Yuyang had underestimated herself. Good luck was about to make a visit; she just didn't know it yet because Wei was still deliberating. With his experience in management and discipline, Wei had little faith in the school security team, for the team members, though unquestionably enthusiastic about their mission, had a serious flaw: They were out in the open, and the other students were on their best behavior around them. That made them ineffective when it came to monitoring their fellow students' thoughts and souls. In order to fully understand them and truly take control of their actions, Wei would need to find suitable informants from the inside—"an eye that can see ten thousand
li
" or "an ear that can hear what travels with the wind." This sort of person should not be too prominent, too showy, or too noticeable in either a positive or negative way. Wei was convinced that he would be well informed in regard to the political orientation of the school if he could develop one such student in each class. Naturally, these students were to remain anonymous heroes, reporting to him and him alone.

Yuyang could not believe that Teacher Wei even knew who she was. He'd called out "Wang Yuyang" in a loud, clear voice, and had even waved, so obviously he was trying to get her attention. This unexpected recognition from the teacher was flattering, but it also made her nervous. The stolen money incident was closed, yet it remained an unstated sore spot for her, and she was still afraid of being called on by the teachers.

Wei summoned her to the general duty office. Lacking the nerve to take a seat on her own, she stood with her eyes lowered, but after a brief and simple chat, she realized that Teacher Wei was a genial person and not mean at all, despite the fact that he was tall and big-boned, which gave him a rough appearance.

Unlike Director Qian, who always looked glum, Wei seemed to be outgoing and laughed easily. Finally he broached the subject. "We have been secretly observing Wang Yuyang with the intention of making her someone we should cultivate." Teacher Wei had said "we," not "I," which meant that he represented the gigantic, tight-knit, behind-the-scenes leadership—mysterious, sacred, and impossible to see in its entirety. He pointed out in a somber voice that as a target of cultivation Wang Yuyang was still lacking in certain areas. In her current state, she wasn't quite up to par. She was, for instance, inadequate in the area of "one heart and one mind" dedication. Although he was subjecting her to criticism, there was a kindhearted message in his words that implied anxiety over turning iron into steel and potential into substance, and this underscored his expectations and hopes for her.

He was stern yet earnest, hinting at a different kind of organizational trust. No one had ever extended a helping hand of that magnitude or indicated this kind of enthusiasm and trust to Yuyang before, and it moved her profoundly. With myriad emotions surging inside her, she fell into a daze as Teacher Wei gave her instructions and an assignment. From now on she was to give a weekly written report to "us" on any and all anomalies, even those involving members of the security team, whether on campus, in class, or in the dorm. In other words, Pang Fenghua might be on the security team from the perspective of organizational procedures, but she was, in reality, under Yuyang's surveillance and control. It was too appealing for words.

The conversation with Wei lasted only twenty minutes, but those twenty minutes were immensely important to Yuyang, a landmark that woke her up and convinced her that she was not dispensable, not useless. She was, in fact, regarded with trust and esteem by the people who mattered. The most enthralling quality of her job was that it required secrecy and underground activity. With the knowledge that she'd been given considerable responsibility, she suddenly felt grown up. On her way out she kept turning over what Teacher Wei had said to her; his words echoed in her ears. He'd told her to "observe more, listen more, record more, talk little, and make yourself less noticeable." How kind his words had been. She'd never sought the limelight, not because she hadn't wanted to, but because she was too shy and didn't know how to. Now, however, everything was different; keeping out of the public eye was an essential feature of her mission.

Real student life began after nine-thirty at night. During the long daylight hours the students could not be themselves. Their time was divided into filing cabinet drawers, into which were placed daily meals, calisthenics, eye-health exercises, and rest periods. The biggest drawer was further divided into class times. There was a bit of flexible time in the late afternoons, but that was like a cupboard for odds and ends. This chunk of time might have appeared enjoyable, but it was monotonous, taken up by group activities, physical education, or the arts, which after a while, became repetitive. Once the evening study period was over, the students tidied up, rinsed out a few of their things, washed up, and climbed into bed before beginning their real activity. If you looked at the dormitories from a distance you'd find them quite attractive during this time. Every window was lit like a scene from a fairy tale. Then at nine-thirty Beijing time all the windows went dark. At lights-out, the campus quieted down, the dorms included; only the soft nightlights in the bathrooms remained on. The windows turned pitch-black as indoor activity began to die down; but this did not mean the day was ending. On the contrary, it was just beginning.

In the brief span of time before they fell asleep, the students lay in bed in the dark, full of energy. Their minds, bright and shiny as if washed clean, became sensitive, sharp, and discerning, capable of philosophical research or poetry composition. The students became transient philosophers and momentary poets. Their tongues sharpened, and even the shiest and least articulate among them seemed to possess a supercharged mouth that emitted the blue flame of wisdom. They chattered away, talking about everything—ancient and modern, domestic and foreign, trivial and outdated—covering interpersonal relationships, the future, their resentments and rancor, their happiness, and anything they could think of.

Of course, everything was twisted, colored by pubescent exaggeration, passion, and sorrow. Lying calmly under their blankets, they spoke with naïve sophistication interspersed with mature recklessness. In fact, they were honest, exposed, and transparent, convinced that they knew everything, that whoever considered them naïve would suffer when the time came. Understandably, their conversations tended to center on the school and their classes, young Zhang and young Li in their classrooms, Mr. Zhang and Miss Li among the teachers, Old Zhang and Little Li at the eatery by the campus gate. With their eyes shut, the students appeared to rest, but their faces were no less expressive than when their eyes were wide open and were often even more colorful and intense. Since the door was bolted, their conversations assumed private, secretive airs. But that was an illusion. Each room had eight mouths, and the following morning, eight would become sixteen, sixteen would become thirty-two, and in no time the secrets would be public knowledge. But this bothered no one.

If the conversations got really animated, the girls would open their eyes and look into the darkness, which had no effect on their cleverness. Their voices would grow louder with uproarious talk or wild laughter. At such moments, a shout would rise up from the teacher on night duty downstairs: "Who's talking up there?"

Sometimes the general became specific: "Room 323. Do you hear me? Room 323." The disturbance would die down again as everyone shut her eyes, savoring the best part of the conversation with happy, contented smiles.

Yuyang lived in 412, a standard room with five girls from the cities, plus Pang Fenghua, Wang Yuyang, and Kong Zhaodi. The most active and conspicuous girl in the room was Zhao Shanshan, who played the violin and the piano, was the class's literary mainstay, and, predictably, was on its arts and literature committee.

A favorite of the teachers, she was outstanding in every respect except for her predilection for giving her classmates nicknames, starting with the boys. She had a gift for giving names that were right on target in mocking the subject's unique features. The name sometimes sounded contrived at first, but the more one mulled it over, the more one had to agree that it was the perfect nickname. She said that one of the boys was like a camel except for his lack of fur. Sure enough, many of his movements did resemble a camel. When the girls ran into Camel on the street, he'd nod and they'd smile knowingly.
He does, he looks like a camel.
In this wondrous world, seeing is believing.

Her victims included Mantis, Hound, Frog, and Toad. As for so-and-so, he definitely resembled a rooster, but only if you looked at his profile when he thrust out his neck, alert and jerky. Of course he was a rooster. The boys in class were unaware that she'd turned them into zoo animals.

After naming her way through the boys in the class, she hadn't yet exhausted her talent, so she moved on to the girls—with Wang Yuyang as her first target. There was nothing malicious in her choice of Yuyang; she simply was in love with all the attention and wanted to show off her clever tongue. One night, when she was washing up, she abruptly asked the other girls if they knew what Wang Yuyang looked like. Trying to supply an answer, the girls silently scrolled through all the animals they could think of, but none reminded them of Yuyang. Zhao waited till lights-out to reveal the answer: Wang Yuyang was a steamed bun. That drew the girls' focus away from animals. Yes, Yuyang's back, especially the nape of her neck, did look like a steamed bun. So it was settled—Yuyang was Steamed Bun. As Yuyang lay in bed feeling hurt, she did not say a word. Zhao was clearly picking on her—as if she were pushing Yuyang's head down and sticking her nose up her bottom. The following morning Yuyang did not show up in the cafeteria; the thought of seeing steamed buns enraged her. The day dragged on till nightfall, when she blurted out, apropos of nothing that was being said at the time, "Zhao Shanshan, you're an oily fritter."

Zhao turned over and said nonchalantly, "How could I be an oily fritter? I don't look anything like one. Hey, everyone, do you think I look like an oily fritter? Of course I don't."

"Then you're gruel," Yuyang said.

If anything, that was even less likely, and Yuyang knew it. Who in the world could look like gruel? Zhao ignored her.

Without the anticipated echo from the other girls, Yuyang felt shamed and did not know what to say.

Kong Zhaodi came to her rescue: "Let's get some sleep. I'm on duty tomorrow." Since both girls were from the countryside, Kong Zhaodi and Wang Yuyang shared a private sense of a united front; they knew they had to team up because the city girls were simply too haughty. By rights, Pang Fenghua should have been the third element in the united front, but having come from a small town, she was a special case.

Admittedly, her town was considered rural, but Pang had grown up eating commodity grain, and her family possessed a city household registry. So strictly speaking, she was not a country girl. That, however, did nothing to make the five city girls in the room treat her as one of their own. To them, she was country. As a result, Pang wavered between the two fronts, one side being too lofty for her, the other too demeaning. Since Fenghua lacked a clearly defined tendency or a firm stance, Yuyang could not expect any help from her. Now, having received no positive feedback in the wake of her retort, Yuyang felt even more injured. She felt worthless, her self-hate as strong as her loathing for Zhao Shanshan.

In the end, Pang Fenghua was forced to join the rural united front after Zhao Shanshan got carried away and gave her the malicious nickname "Taken." It began with a pair of shoes. One morning as she left the dorm, Li Dong put a pair of shoes with stretchable openings on the windowsill to air out, but when she returned that afternoon, they had been replaced by a pair of sneakers. Li Dong knew immediately that Pang had made the switch. Tossing the sneakers on the floor, Li Dong commented casually, "Whose worn shoes are these anyway?"

That was all Zhao Shanshan needed to engage her clever tongue: "Didn't you just say it yourself, Li Dong? Worn shoes are surely taken." Li Dong, no longer upset, was pleased. It had to be Pang Fenghua who was "taken" like worn shoes. The nickname not only appeased Li but was witty and had a negative implication, since it referred to loose women. This was how Pang Fenghua got her nickname, though its use was restricted to the small circle of their dorm room. It was clever, but not something one brought up casually. If it spread beyond the dorm, it would not only be considered thoughtless and indiscreet, but in terrible taste for girls their age.

Fenghua had returned a bit later than usual that night since she'd gone to the homeroom teacher's office before the evening study period was over. She was increasingly drawn to what he had to say even though he tended to ramble, often incoherently, as if he were shrouded in clouds and fog. She understood every word, but not everything he said when he strung the words together, which she found endearing, since they sounded to her like Misty Poetry. And she discovered that their relationship itself was beginning to resemble Misty Poetry: filled with meaning, having no beginning and no end, and marked by an anxiety that yearned to be made clear. But the means to put this into words seemed forever beyond her reach.

In recent days the homeroom teacher had been on an emotional roller coaster, suffering mood swings from extreme happiness to intense sadness. There did not seem to be any reason for these mercurial changes, and, while Fenghua asked herself what was going on, she was smart enough to guess what was happening. Like her, he had a restless heart, and she worried about him, felt bad for him, and would have liked to share his anxieties. And yet, she experienced an indescribable sweetness, an irrepressible pleasure that was simultaneously sheer torture. In fact, nothing inappropriate had happened and nothing probably would in the end; but that was precisely why she felt such a yearning, such concern. Immersed in a welter of emotions, she felt like crying, but no tears came.