The Crazed (11 page)

In late August the autumn wind howls
Peeling my roof of three-layered straw.
The straw flies across the brook,
Hanging on the top of the woods
And tumbling into gullies and ponds.

The children from South Village
Bully me for my old age,
Daring to be thieves before my eyes:
They take away my straw and vanish
Into the bamboo grove.

Lips cracked and tongue dried
I can no longer cry. And coming back,
I keep sighing over my cane.

He paused and raised his head, his eyes flashing. “What do you think of that?” he asked me proudly. “A powerful beginning, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I forced myself to agree. Anyone could tell that those lines were the beginning of Tu Fu’s “Song of My Straw Hut Shattered by the Autumn Wind.” How could Mr. Yang believe he had written the poem himself? Yet the earnest look on his face showed that he didn’t doubt his authorship at all. I remained quiet. Whoever he fancied himself to be was fine with me, as long as he didn’t throw a fit.

“See how simple these lines are. It’s the simplicity that stirs the soul. Comrades, bear in mind that the traditional poetic theory believes there’s an inverse relationship between ideas and emotions. If an idea in a poem is too complicated and too arcane, the poem begins to lose its emotional power. Conversely, if the poem is too emotional, its intelligence will diminish. A good poet intuitively knows how to strike a balance between thoughts and emotions. When I read this poem for the first time, I wondered to myself, ‘My goodness, how could he write these lines? They are as sturdy and supple as green branches.’ ”

Now he seemed to have dropped his conviction that he himself was the author. Somehow he couldn’t affix his mind to an idea for long; his thoughts rambled too much. I wondered whether there was a way to make his mind more focused and more coherent. Perhaps he should be treated by a psychiatrist; acupuncture or acupressure might help him too.

“Listen carefully,” he demanded, as if he knew I was wool-gathering—thinking about his brain instead of his views. He went on reciting huskily:

Then the wind subsides, murky clouds
Thickening while the sky turns misty and dark.
Our quilts, ragged for years,
Are hard as iron. Full of cracks
They can’t keep my kids warm in their sleep.

Again I fear that rain will fall in
Through the leaky roof, swaying like
Endless hempen threads and soaking our beds.
Ever since the war I’ve seldom slept.
How hard it is to pass such long dank nights!

He paused for breath, then commented, “I wrote these lines when I was ‘reeducated’ in the countryside. During the day we pulled plows in the fields like beasts of burden, or hoed soybean seedlings, or planted rice shoots, or cleaned latrines and pig-sties, or shipped manure to the fields. Although the work was backbreaking, it was not as nerve-racking as at night, because the hard labor could numb and vacate my mind. I could hardly think of anything while my body was busy. Once I started working, I just went on like a machine. Besides, when the work was heavy and urgent, we were often given better food, not as in the regular time when we had to eat sweet-potato strips and bran buns—both were indigestible and gave me heartburn and stomachaches. When we gathered in crops or loaded sun-dried bricks into the kiln or carried them out of it after they had been fired, we could eat as many corn buns as we wanted, and sometimes there were even slivers of pork belly in the vegetables. We were also given mung bean soup, which we could drink to our fill. But it was horrible at night. I suffered from insomnia. So many things came to mind that I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Once I didn’t sleep for thirteen days in a row. I begged the farm’s doctor to prescribe some soporific for me, but the leaders wouldn’t let him give me any, saying, ‘We ought to save the sleeping pills for the revolutionary masses. You can’t sleep because you haven’t worked hard enough.’ In the daytime I walked in the fields as if treading the clouds. My eyes ached and my head swelled with a shooting migraine. I was frightened that I was going to lose my mind, but the more fearful I was, the more sleepless the night became. I hated all the men around me for being able to sleep at night and get up refreshed the next morning. How often I envied the pigs in the sties behind our house, because they just ate and slept until one day they were hauled out to the butcher’s.”

He swallowed, then resumed: “The roof of our room was full of holes, through which night after night I listened to the wind whistle and watched the moon and the clouds move by slowly. In spite of my wakefulness, I dared not make any noise. If by chance my movement in bed woke somebody, he would curse me relentlessly and wake others up. Then all the people in the room would heap abuse on me. On the one hand, I wished the night would end sooner so that I could stop thinking; on the other, I wished daylight would never arrive so that I could stay in bed longer and rest my body more. In that state of mind I composed these lines.” He patted Brecht’s play in his lap and continued, “Genuine poetry originates from the author’s personal experience. It’s something that overflows from the soul.”

I prodded him, “But you once said in class that most poems came from other poems.”

He looked askance at me, then admitted, “Yes, most poems are small potatoes that come from big potatoes, the real poems from original, genuine human experience. The big potatoes, the real poems, are planted by some people first. Then the children of the big potatoes are planted; then the grandchildren are planted. Year after year the great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, great-great-great-grandchildren of the big potatoes grow smaller and smaller until they have shrunk to nothing. Then people must look for other big potatoes to grow.”

This was crazy. His analogy was wild, though refreshing. I asked without any irony, “So you think this is a big-potato poem?”

“Of course. It’s a piece in which authenticity overcomes artifice. Only after I had suffered all the miseries and abuse and the sleepless nights could I write such truthful lines. Listen, there’s not a single false sound here.” He recited again:

If only I had ten thousand mansions
To shelter all poor scholars on earth
And brighten their faces with smiles.
Look, the mansions stand like mountains
Unshakable in wind and rain!

Ah, once before my eyes arise such mansions,
I shall be happy, even though my own hut
Falls apart and I freeze to death!

“Oh, when can I see those mansions?” he cried and burst into sobs. His tears fell on the apricot-yellow cover of the book in his lap. “Where are those grand mansions?” he shouted. “Let me see them. Then I’ll die happy. Where, where are they?” He was wailing now, his mouth writhing.

I was choking with mixed emotions—pity, misery, and disgust were all welling up in my chest. He hadn’t written a single line of poetry in his whole life and had to rely on the ancient poem to express his aspiration, which was conventional and hackneyed, though not without lofty sentiment.

He blubbered again, “I only have a one-bedroom apartment. Give me one of those mansions! Where are they? I shall be a professor of the first rank, absolutely qualified for such a residence.”

What a lunatic! He made me want to laugh and weep at the same time, and my eyes misted over.

“Oh, Lord of Heaven, isn’t this a genuine poem?” he cried again. “Doesn’t it have truth in it? Truth must come true sooner or later like light that drives away darkness. But when? Why am I not allowed to see it materialize before I die? Why can’t I enter any of those high mansions to meet the happy faces of the poor scholars? If truth cannot come true, then what good can it do us? And what’s the use of a poem like this?” He pulled his right hand onto his belly, its back stained with tears. He chanted extravagantly:

Before I die, my aspiration
Is not yet realized—
Tears often wet the front
Of this hero’s robe.

He tried to reach his chest with his left hand, but couldn’t lift it that high. Suddenly with his right hand he swept the book to the floor and yelled, “I don’t want this stuff anymore! No, no more poetry, not a word of truth in it. It’s full of lies. I’ve been fooled by it all my life.”

“Professor Yang, stop, please!” I stepped over and shook his shoulder gently.

He said between gasps, “Damn it, the poem states clearly there are ten thousand mansions, but where are they? I wrote it and have studied it all my life, but I don’t even have a decent apartment. What’s the good of poetry? It just gets your hopes up.” He was trembling all over and still wouldn’t stop ranting. “People who don’t care a damn about poetry live well and wallow in bliss and comfort. One of my former classmates, who is a nincompoop specializing only in licking his superiors’ assholes, was appointed a minister in the State Council two years ago. He has so much power that he had a swimming pool constructed for himself, as easy as ordering a dish. But we, wretched scholars and fainthearted bookworms, have lain in word-hoards, feeding on paper and ink, believing in poetry, and dreaming of miracles. We are all fools! We— we—” He was panting so hard that words failed him.

I patted his back for a while to relieve his gasping. Then I began laying him down slowly. The muscles on his face twitched and twitched as though something were biting him in his mouth.

I too was sick at heart.

14

When Meimei and I became engaged, my parents came to Shanning to see the Yangs. They brought products from our hometown, such as hazelnuts, dried tree ears, and daylilies. They presented Meimei with a woolen coat and her parents each with a marten hat, which embarrassed me a little because the climate here wasn’t cold enough for anyone to wear such a hat. Among their gifts was a small bag of dried hedgehog mushrooms, which my townsfolk call “monkey’s heads.” These were a delicacy that could rarely be found in the forest nowadays. The Yangs were very impressed by the mushrooms, which they had heard of but never seen before. Although my mother explained to Mrs. Yang in detail how to prepare and cook them—soak them in warm water for a day, tear them into slivers, and stew them with pork or chicken— Mrs. Yang kept shaking her head and said she couldn’t make such a fancy dish by herself, afraid of spoiling the mushrooms. So my mother cooked some for the engagement dinner. The Yangs were amazed that the mushrooms tasted almost exactly like the pork shoulder they were stewed with.

At the end of the dinner, my mother took out a folded envelope and said to my fiancée, “Meimei, here’s five hundred yuan my old man and I would like to give you as a token for having you as our daughter.”

The Yangs and I were all surprised. I hadn’t anticipated that she’d follow the customs back home, which required the parents-in-law to present a sum of money to the prospective daughter-in-law, who in return must call them Father and Mother in front of everyone.

My mother remained silent, her broad face wearing an expectant smile. Meimei seemed puzzled, looking at me inquiringly. I told the Yangs, “By the customs in the Northeast, Meimei should call my parents Father and Mother when she accepts the money.”

“I’m not selling myself,” said Meimei in an undertone, but everybody heard her.

A prolonged hush fell on the table. I was disconcerted, not knowing whether I should take the money for my fiancée. Five hundred yuan was a large sum, equal to seven or eight months’ salary for a common worker. It must have taken my mother two or three years to save such an amount. My father broke in, “Well Meimei, if you’re against the old custom, we can understand. One of these days you will call us Dad and Mom anyway, so we can wait. Just take the money, okay? That will make my old wife happy.”

“I can’t do that,” said Meimei.

My mother looked upset, puffing her lips out. Luckily no other people were at the dinner, or she’d have felt she had lost face. My father told her, “Meimei is a college student, and we shouldn’t treat her like a regular bride in our small town. We should’ve thought of this beforehand.”

Then I hit upon an idea. “Mother, please keep the money for Meimei for the time being, all right? She’s wonderful with the harmonica. Can we ask her to play a tune for us instead of calling you Mom?”

To my relief, my mother agreed. “Sure, fine with me. I won’t have her do anything she doesn’t want to.”

I turned to Meimei. “Please play a piece.”

Mr. Yang chimed in, “That’s the minimum you should do for your future parents-in-law.”

Pouting, Meimei went into the bedroom and returned with her large harmonica. Without asking us what to play, she began blaring the music of “March Forward, March Forward!,” the theme song of the revolutionary ballet
The Red
Women Detachment.
The militant tune was metallic and fierce; it sounded like a pack of cats whining and growling at one another. At times one or two notes snapped out of place. The music made my temples smart. For some reason, my mother enjoyed it and even hummed along with the tune. I saw resentment in Meimei’s eyes and her red cheeks bulging. When she was done, I dared not comment, but my parents clapped their hands.

Mrs. Yang muttered, “She’s totally spoiled.”

“You could have chosen a sweeter piece,” added her father.

Meimei sat down without a word, panting a little. My mother picked up the envelope and put it back into the inner pocket of her jacket. She said, “Meimei, I’ll keep this money for you. Whenever you need it, it’s yours.”

I was unhappy with Meimei. If she had accepted the woolen coat from my parents, why couldn’t she take the money? What made her so particular? But I didn’t say anything to reopen the topic.

The Yangs’ apartment had just one bedroom, so my parents stayed with me in the dormitory. Huran and Mantao had gone home for the winter break, and there were enough beds, though my parents had to sleep separately. That they didn’t mind. But they were accustomed to the heated brick-bed back home, the beds here were too cold for them, and they complained that there was no stove in the room.

The day before my parents returned home, Meimei, Mrs. Yang, and my mother went shopping downtown. My parents wanted to take back some fashionable clothes for friends and neighbors and also some fancy candies for children, which were not available at our local grocery stores. My mother was fond of Meimei despite my fiancée’s unsteady temper, often saying it was fortunate to have a doctor in our family. At those words, Meimei would smile complacently and declare she’d handle me like a doctor treating a patient. She even warned me to expect a fishwife.

My father and Mr. Yang stayed home, smoking pipes while chatting away over black tea. They liked each other very much. My father had been a college graduate and was well read, so they had a lot to talk about. I sat in the bedroom, listening to them through the door ajar.

“Old Wan, you must have gone through a great deal of hardship all these years,” said Mr. Yang.

“That’s true,” my father admitted. “Look at my hands, they’re coarser than a peasant’s. I used to write articles for a major newspaper in Tianjin. Just because of a few words of criticism about an overbearing leader, they sent me to Heilongjiang Province to be reformed.”

“Did you often starve at the labor camp?”

“I didn’t go to a camp actually. What happened was that before the revolution my father had been a landowner, a small one who had only five acres of land. But he helped the Communists during the war against the Japanese invaders and often gave them food and shelter, so during the Land Reform the Communists put him into a different category from a regular landowner. He was classified in ‘the open-minded gentry.’ ”

“Does this mean you’re from a revolutionary family?” Mr. Yang asked in earnest.

“No, we were treated as a lesser kind of reactionary. Some of the Communists still remembered my father when I was in trouble, so they intervened on my behalf. That’s how I wasn’t sent to a camp. Else God knows where my bones would’ve been scattered.”

“I see,” sighed Mr. Yang. “There has been so much gratuitous suffering in our lives.”

I peeked in at them. My father’s face grew more rugged, his little nose twitching. “My family suffered a lot because of me too,” he went on. “Jian and his brother often got beaten up on the streets. One evening I was released by the revolutionaries and returned home, only to find that my boys both had swollen faces and broken skulls. Jian still has a scar above his eye.”

True, my right eye would still blur a little in sunlight, owing to a stone a boy had thrown at me when they kicked and slapped me outside the elementary school. After that beating, for a week, my right eye could hardly distinguish two from three fingers put before my face, but later my mother fed me cod-liver oil every day and gradually my vision was restored.

Mr. Yang said, “No wonder Jian often seems sad and gloomy like an older man.”

“For many years he didn’t have any friends except for his younger brother. I was terribly worried about him and afraid he might be traumatized. He was more withdrawn than my other son. I wondered if he’d lost the ability to smile, but after he went to college, he seemed to become more open.”

“He gets along with others well here, he’s a fine young man.”

“Now with Meimei, he should be all right.” Father laughed.

“You have raised him well, Old Wan.”

“I would say so too. I often did homework with him and the younger one together.”

More than that, my father had also told stories and recited classical poetry to us. With his help, I had memorized many poems. That was the origin of my love for literature. In every way he was a devoted family man; my brother and I often slept with him so that we could hear him tell us folk tales. Although my mother, from a local peasant family, was almost illiterate, he had always treated her with respect and gratitude for her loyalty and endurance. She had seldom complained about the humiliation and hardship we had gone through. She was a strong woman and for many years had driven a mule cart selling tofu on the streets, which was the only job she could get. Her rawboned face often reminded me of that painful period of our life.

My father had dexterous hands. Several times the tree farm’s leaders had wanted to transfer him to its propaganda section, but he refused to go, saying he couldn’t write anymore and preferred to remain a carpenter. He was well respected for his craftsmanship, and so many people wanted him to make wardrobes, chests, and dining tables for them that he always had his hands full. He told Mr. and Mrs. Yang that when they had a more spacious apartment, he’d like to come and build some furniture for them. If they couldn’t get lumber here, he could send them some before he came.

Gradually the two men began talking about poetry. My father was no expert in poetics, but he knew many of Tu Fu’s poems by heart. Mr. Yang got excited as they went on. They both loved the later Tu Fu more than his early work, believing it represented the peak of classical Chinese literature.

“It’s poverty that refined his poetry,” remarked my father, repeating the cliché, but with genuine feeling.

“Well, for many years I thought that way too,” said Mr. Yang.

“You don’t think so anymore?” my father pressed on.

“Honestly, I’m not sure.”

“How come?”

“Two years ago I went to a conference in Chengdu, so I had an opportunity to visit ‘the straw hut’ where Tu Fu spent his last years. Believe it or not, it’s not a hut but a big house, much bigger than a regular cottage. Before the house there were flowerbeds filled with chrysanthemums and roses of various colors. The yard was so large that it took me a few minutes to walk across. His residence was more like a wealthy landowner’s. Tu Fu seemed well provided for in his last years. He had powerful friends who gave him money and provisions.”

“But didn’t he starve to death?”

“That’s a legend without any proof. The belief that he lived in dire poverty could just be a sentimental invention, meant to comfort poor scholars and intellectuals like us. Frankly, I don’t see much connection between poverty and the refinement of poetry. I dare say that Tu Fu might have had a better life than many of us.”

“That’s very interesting.” My father sounded dubious, but said no more.

Mr. Yang added, “In Chinese history, this must be the toughest time for us intellectuals. So many lives have been wasted and so many talents destroyed. In addition to material poverty, there’s spiritual sterility too.”

They both turned silent.

In class Mr. Yang would never speak so candidly. His remarks indicated that he had reservations about some of the comments in our textbooks. The notion that poverty can refine poetry is a principle in the conventional poetics, but according to my teacher, this idea could be erroneous.
Probably,
I thought,
I should write a paper on this subject if he doesn’t dare
to do it himself.
Later I brought this up with Mr. Yang, but he told me to forget about it.