River Town (12 page)

 

NOT LONG AFTER
the sentencing, I came back from a run and realized that the sign in the center of campus had become completely intelligible. This was a moment I had always looked forward to—from the beginning, I had seen that string of characters as a benchmark, and I traced my progress in the way those words became meaningful. And one day all of it finally made sense:

 

Teaching Educates the People, Administration Educates the People,
Service Educates the People, Environment Educates the People

 

I stopped and took a long look. I read the sign again, waiting for the sense of achievement. But nothing was there—it was simply propaganda, the same sort of trite phrase that could be found in the students' textbooks or on billboards all across the city. I would react the same way when the other messages on the way to Raise the Flag Mountain came into focus:

 

Construct a Spiritual Civilization, Replace the Old Concept of
Giving Birth
Controlling Population Growth Promotes Social Development
Education Is the Foundation upon Which a Powerful Nation Is Built

 

All of it was the same old cant. Every time one of the signs became intelligible, I felt very little of the satisfaction that I had once imagined. Instead I heard Teacher Liao's voice in my head: Read the next one. You haven't achieved anything yet. And so I kept writing the characters over and over again at my desk, gazing out my window at the city.

 

LATE ONE AFTERNOON
in December, Adam and I were summoned to the English department office, where we were informed that there would be a banquet tonight. These announcements were always made at the last minute, and they meant that the evening was effectively finished, because it was impossible to go to a banquet and not get hopelessly drunk.

A good part of our Peace Corps medical training had involved preparation for these moments. Even though we were only the third Peace Corps China group, the Sichuan countryside was already littered with tales of volunteers who had become banquet casualties. There were stories of fights, of vandalism, of volunteers who had become so dangerously intoxicated that they forever swore off drinking at such occasions. Our medical officer strongly recommended that after arriving at site we establish ourselves as nondrinkers, at least as far as banquets were concerned.

The most frequently performed procedure in Sichuanese emergency rooms was stomach-pumping. The vast majority of these patients were male, because drinking, like smoking, was an important part of being a man. This was true in many parts of China, especially in the more remote regions, and Sichuan drinking wasn't simply a casual way to relax. Often it was competitive, and usually it involved
baijiu
, a powerful and foul-tasting grain alcohol. Men toasted each other with full shots, and there was a tendency for this drinking to turn into a kind of bullying, the participants goading each other until somebody got sick. One of our Peace Corps training sessions had involved personal testimony from a Sichuanese man, who shrugged sheepishly and explained that even good friends were perfectly willing to drink each other into the hospital. Like the medical officer, he recommended that we use our
waiguoren
status to avoid this ritual entirely.

It was a typical Peace Corps scenario: having been told a wealth of horror stories about the pointless machismo of Sichuanese drinking, Adam and I were promptly sent down the river to the most remote Peace Corps site in the province. At our welcoming banquet, when we were served our first shot of
baijiu
, neither of us hesitated for even a second. Our training had repeatedly emphasized that this was critical to whatever it took to be a man in a place like Fuling, and as far as we
were concerned this was part of our job. We hadn't come all this way just to be
waiguoren
. We downed the shot, and we downed the next one, too.

During that first month we had two or three banquets a week, and soon I could see that all of the drinking was organized with remarkable intricacy The faculty took it easy on us at the beginning, no doubt because the Peace Corps had given all the colleges a stern warning about responsibility. But eventually our colleagues came to the same conclusion that we had: the Peace Corps was far away. Steadily the pressure to drink increased, and as time passed I realized that the English department had an alcoholic leaderboard. This wasn't a literal leaderboard in the sense of being written down, but it was completely public and accepted. You could ask any teacher where his alcohol tolerance stood in relation to everybody else's in the department, and he would answer with well-tested precision. Party Secretary Zhang was at the top, followed by Albert, then Dean Fu, and so on through the ranks until you came to Teacher Sai, who was such a lightweight that people referred to him scornfully as “Miss Sai” during banquets.

Within three weeks Adam was the undisputed number one drinker in the English department. I was ranked second; Party Secretary Zhang slipped to third. In truth I wasn't much of a drinker at home, but Fuling tolerance levels tended to be low, because many residents have a genetic intolerance of alcohol that is common among Asians. Even Party Secretary Zhang, despite his lofty ranking, turned bright red after a few drinks. This was one reason why local drinking patterns were so abusive with relatively light consequences; most people were genetically unable to become alcoholics. Once or twice a week they might be able to drink heavily, but they got too sick to do it all the time. It was a ritual rather than a habit.

In a pathetic way, drinking became one small thing that Adam and I were good at, although it was difficult to take much pride in this. If anything, it said a great deal about our troubles adjusting to Fuling life, because the banquets and the drinking, despite their strange childishness, represented one of our more comfortable environments. We gained instant respect for our tolerance levels, and to a certain degree this was how the department authorities communicated with us. If
they had something important to tell us, or if a request needed to be made, it was handled at a banquet. Our colleagues, who usually seemed stiff and nervous around the
waiguoren
, loosened up once the
baijiu
started flowing. These events were strictly all-male—the only women involved were the waitresses who served the
baijiu
.

Before the December banquet, Adam and I were escorted into the English department office to meet our hosts for the evening. Two men stood up and shook our hands, smiling. One of them was a tall handsome man in his forties and the other was a short older man of perhaps sixty years. The tall man wore a new sweater, and from the way he carried himself it was clear that he was important—a cadre. It was also just as obvious that they were here to make some request of us, because they were sponsoring the meal. Teacher Sai and Dean Fu were there to translate.

“This is Mr. Wang from the Chinese department,” Teacher Sai said. “Mr. Wang came to the college in 1977—he was part of the first class when the college opened after the Great Cultural Revolution. He was the best English student, but English was not a preferred subject in those days. So he became a Chinese professor instead. But he is still very interested in English.”

Adam and I shook Teacher Wang's hand again. Teacher Sai seemed to have forgotten the other man, who didn't appear to be offended. Obviously he was accustomed to moving in the bigger man's wake.

All of us sat down. Adam and I waited for the request; cynically I assumed that Teacher Wang wanted English lessons. Already I could imagine myself sitting in this cadre's office, bored to tears while he said, slowly, “How-are-you?”

“Mr. Wang has heard that you studied literature,” Dean Fu said. “He wants to ask you some questions about American literature.”

This took me by surprise. I asked him what he meant.

“Mr. Wang is the editor of the college literary magazine,” said Dean Fu. “He has more than ten thousand books.”

He paused to let the number sink in. Then he leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Mr. Wang,” he said, “has the most books of anybody in Fuling Teachers College.”

A proud smile flickered across Teacher Wang's face and I could
see that he understood what had been said. I wondered if Sichuanese men had book rankings as well as alcohol rankings, and what the relationship might be between these two sources of prestige. This was all uncharted territory—in Peace Corps training nobody had warned us about books.

I said that I knew less about American literature than English literature, but I'd try to answer his questions. Teacher Wang nodded and shot off his first query in Chinese to Dean Fu, who translated.

“Mr. Wang has a question about Saul Bellow,” he announced. “Does the average American understand his books?”

I said that I had read very little of Bellow's work, but my impression was that his style was accessible, and that he was considered one of the best Jewish American writers and a voice of Chicago. Teacher Wang nodded, as if this was what he had expected to hear. He had another question ready.

“What about Joyce Carol Oates?” Dean Fu said. “Do you think that she follows in the tradition of Virginia Woolf?”

“Not really,” I said. “Most people say that Joyce Carol Oates isn't a feminist writer. Actually, some feminists criticize her.”

This led us to a discussion on feminism, followed by Toni Morrison and black women writers, and then we came to southern literature. After that we talked about Hemingway and the “Dirty Realism” of authors like Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff. All of it was translated through Dean Fu, and as we talked I realized that he had an even more impressive knowledge of American literature than I had thought. I also realized that I was a jackass for assuming that the ten-thousand-book Teacher Wang needed my help to say “How-are-you.”

After half an hour we moved to the banquet hall. The first toast was a general one, for everybody at the table, and then Teacher Wang gave Adam and me a special toast. Party Secretary Zhang followed with another shot for the entire party. When the next toast came around, Teacher Sai pushed his cup away and grinned nervously.

“I can't drink any more,” he said. “That is enough.”

“Drink it,” said Party Secretary Zhang. “All of it.”

“You know that I do not drink,” Teacher Sai said. He brought his hands together and bowed his head quickly in a pleading gesture. Teacher Sai was one of the brightest of the department teachers, a
pudgy man in his forties who was always smiling. Tonight his face was already bright red after two shots. He shook his head again.

“No, no, no,” said Party Secretary Zhang. “You must do it for our guests.”

“I can't.”

They were speaking English for our benefit, but then they shifted to Chinese. While arguing they fought over the cup—Teacher Sai tried to push it away while Party Secretary Zhang held it firmly on the table. Dean Fu and Teacher Wang grinned. They joined in, scoffing at Teacher Sai until at last he picked up the shot glass. Everybody watched.

It took him a long time to drain the cup. He drank it in three painful sips, and after the last one he gasped and coughed. He put the cup back down on the table. Within seconds the waitress was there to refill it. Teacher Sai quickly put his hand over the cup, shaking his head.

“That is enough,” he said.

Party Secretary Zhang tried to pry Teacher Sai's hand away. The waitress stood by patiently, bottle in hand. It was a quintessentially Sichuanese scene—for every scroll painting of a lovely river they could have had ten depicting
baijiu
arguments, two men scrabbling over a cup while a young woman waited with a bottle.

“Seriously,” Teacher Sai said. “That is enough for me.”

“Miss Sai,” taunted Party Secretary Zhang, pulling at his hand.

“Miss Sai,” echoed Dean Fu, grinning.

Teacher Wang said something and everybody laughed. For a few minutes the entire table was focused on Teacher Sai's cup. It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago we had been talking about Saul Bellow and Joyce Carol Oates. Finally Teacher Sai relented.

“Only one more,” he said. “This is the last one.”

The waitress filled his cup. Teacher Wang smiled and turned his attention toward Adam and me. He made a quick gesture, holding up his cup, and the three of us drank. Teacher Wang downed the
baijiu
easily and he was not turning red.

The food came and for a while the shots slowed. When they resumed, everybody had forgotten about Teacher Sai, who was only good entertainment at the start and finish of a banquet. He was too
much hassle once the serious drinking started and now he sat sipping tea while the
baijiu
flowed in earnest.

There was strategy to this part of the banquet and usually the shots were preceded by low murmurings, the teachers speaking the Sichuan dialect while Adam and I muttered English back and forth. The trick was to get a two-for-one—if Party Secretary Zhang toasted both Adam and me, then we would both drink and immediately afterward Dean Fu could do the same. Our response was to hit them with a preemptive strike; if we sensed that they were plotting, one of us would toast the pair, or the entire table, and then they would have to recover before resuming the attack. Occasionally they tried to focus on me, sensing weakness, but when that happened Adam would step in and cover me. That was acceptable in Sichuan—a friend could take a shot for you. Sichuanese drinking was a lot like war.

Every banquet had a leader, a sort of alcoholic alpha male who controlled the direction of the
baijiu
. Party Secretary Zhang always led the English-department events, but tonight he deferred to Teacher Wang. The big man worked quickly and with surprising fairness, toasting the entire table until the other teachers started to weaken. After that he focused on Adam and me, scorning the usual two-for-one as he traded personal shots between the two of us. It was a remarkable exhibition. After half an hour the three of us were still the most sober at the table, but I was fading quickly and Teacher Wang showed no signs of slowing. I heard Dean Fu and Party Secretary Zhang asking him to ease up, because they were afraid I would get sick, and at last the flurry of toasts ended.