The Crazed (17 page)

25

Banping left behind his Jean-Christophe. Gazing at the massive novel on the arm of the wicker chair, I wondered how he could still read for pleasure while looking after our crazed teacher here. Wasn’t he eager to find out the secrets hidden in Mr. Yang’s mind? He didn’t seem interested in his ravings at all. Why was he so detached? He must be either too strong-minded or too thick-skinned. In a way, I wished I were as stolid as he.

Today five minutes after I sat down, Mr. Yang began speaking in his sleep. “As I told you last week, I cannot do anything more for your nephew. I’m not a professor of physics but I already wrote a recommendation for him. Who would believe what I said in the letter? The Canadian professors must take me to be a crook. I cannot put myself to shame again.”

Then his voice wavered as he lisped something I couldn’t quite catch. My interest was piqued. This was the first time I had heard him mention the letter of recommendation. A few days ago Banping had told me that during his shift Secretary Peng often came to see Mr. Yang, talking with him privately. The young man must be
her
nephew, for whom our teacher had already written a letter. Yet the secretary seemed to have been pressing him for something more. What was it?

Though unable to figure that out, I realized why Ying Peng had been so helpful to Mr. Yang since he suffered the stroke. She wanted him to recover soon so that he could be as useful to her as before.

“Yes, I do know some people in Canada,” Mr. Yang said again, “but they’re all in comparative literature and East Asian studies. I have no connections in the science departments there. How could I help your nephew get a scholarship in physics? Out of the question.” His nose whistled as he spoke.

At last it was clear that the young man wanted to attend a Canadian school as a graduate student, and that Secretary Peng had asked Mr. Yang to secure a scholarship for him. What a silly demand!

“You don’t understand,” Mr. Yang resumed impatiently. “Things are done differently in Canadian colleges, where every applicant has to compete with others on an equal footing.” How ridiculous Ying Peng was. She seemed unable to see that in Canadian and American schools scholarships were not something that could be procured only by pulling strings. Every applicant must reach some minimum standard, such as 1,800 in the GRE or 560 in the TOEFL, and would be evaluated by a committee of professors, none of whom alone could arrange the acceptance of a graduate student. The admission procedures were described clearly in the guidebooks to foreign colleges, and we all had read the descriptions before we applied. A dumb official, Secretary Peng didn’t have any inkling of the admission process.

“That’s entirely different,” Mr. Yang said in answer. “I did write a letter for him, a very strong one. I wrote it not because he’s going to be my son-in-law but because he’s my student, whom I’ve known well and believed to be a promising scholar. You see, even if he’s in my field, I cannot help him get a scholarship. He has to earn it by himself. That’s why he cannot go to the University of Wisconsin.”

Good heavens, he was talking about me! How had I gotten dragged into their dispute? It occurred to me that this wrangle must have taken place quite recently, because the University of Wisconsin had informed me of my acceptance only three months before.

I held my breath, listening attentively as he went on: “Believe me, Jian Wan can be an excellent scholar if he has the opportunity to do graduate work in an American school. That’s the only reason I recommended him. As you know, he’s a decent young fellow, serious and intelligent, though sometimes he’s absentminded.”

Mr. Yang’s good words flattered me. Although he had more confidence in me than I in myself, he would never praise me to my face and instead often called me “my stupid young man.” He once remonstrated with me about my unseemly handwriting, saying with his index finger pointed at my nose, “Your script is like your face to other scholars. I don’t want my students to look ugly. If you write so sloppily again, do not show me your papers.” Since then, I had been careful about my handwriting.

He sighed, then said testily, “You shouldn’t mix my personal life with my professional life. If you think you can lord it over me, you are wrong. Besides, you have no evidence for that.” After a pause, he faltered, “I ne-never thought you could be so unconscionable. You’re very sneaky and even vile. You tried to trap me, didn’t you?” Then his voice turned muffled. I listened hard, but to no avail.

He was so outspoken and even fearless, I was impressed. Did he actually confront Secretary Peng? I wondered. He might have. What did he challenge her to produce evidence for?

His voice grew audible again. “I’m well along in years, and my legs are already stuck in the grave, but Weiya Su is still young. Aren’t you aware that your scurrilous words can destroy her life?” His face, on which drops of sweat stood out, looked dark. His chest was heaving for breath.

Now clearly, Ying Peng had known of the affair and used it to blackmail him into helping her nephew acquire a scholarship. How absurd this whole thing was! Even if Mr. Yang had interceded for the young man, he’d only have made a spectacle of himself. No physics professor would believe his words.

“Do whatever you like,” he declared. “Remember, if anything happens to Weiya, you’ll be responsible.” A spasm of anger distorted his face.

The implication of his last sentence must have been that if Weiya committed suicide, as some young women had done when their romances were exposed, Secretary Peng would be held accountable for her death.

Knowing of his affair, I could feel the tremendous pressure he had suffered when he uttered those defiant words. If the accusation was proved true, it would ruin both his family and his academic life, and Weiya would become notorious as “a little broken shoe” and would be punished as well, at least kicked out of the university if not banished to a small town to teach elementary or middle school. No woman with such a lifestyle problem would be qualified to be a college teacher. Mr. Yang must have been extremely anxious, fearful that the affair would be exposed. So this might have been the true cause of his stroke.

Not entirely. What he said next added something more. “Oh, I have no money!” he wailed. “Where on earth can I get so many dollars!”

Now, it seemed the secretary had resorted to the $1,800 too. How absurd the whole thing had become, totally out of proportion! Just for an imaginary scholarship, Ying Peng would do anything. Why couldn’t she see the logic in his argument? What made her believe so firmly that he could get a scholarship for her nephew from a science department? This was almost like a joke.

“I have no money, no money at all!” Mr. Yang kept yelling and rocking his head. The boards of the bed were squeaking. “Leave me alone. I’ve already written a letter for him. Stop pestering me!”

I felt uneasy that he had stooped to producing the irrelevant recommendation. True, few faculty members here would hesitate to write such a thing, but Mr. Yang had always been regarded as a man of principle and a model scholar. Why had he joined the ranks of liars?

Speaking of recommendations, I had translated into English a good number of them for my fellow graduate students and had seen that the letters were all packed with hyperboles and lies, as if everybody were a genius and, once transplanted to foreign soil, would flourish into an Einstein or a Nabokov. Some of them, applying to American colleges, even fabricated their own recommendations and asked their friends or siblings to sign as their thesis advisers. No American school could tell or would bother to detect the fraud. I knew a young woman lecturer in the city’s Institute of Industrial Arts and Crafts who had gotten admitted to a university in Louisiana on the strength of three letters of recommendation, all composed by her boyfriend and signed by him under different names and titles.

Mr. Yang was whimpering something incomprehensible. His nose was red and swollen, while bits of spit flecked his stubbly chin. I felt terrible for Weiya. With the knowledge of the affair, Ying Peng could easily have her under her thumb. Even if Yuman Tan married her someday, the secretary, possessing the secret unknown to the husband, could continue to control her. Undoubtedly Weiya was already in her clutches. This must be why she had to obey her, though she seemed to have turned the trap to her own advantage by dating Yuman Tan seriously.

Mr. Yang opened his eyes and yawned. “Meimei, is that you?” he asked.

I made no answer. He looked around slowly and fixed his eyes on me. Somehow my heart started palpitating. Then his dull gaze moved away and fell on
Jean-Christophe
on the armrest of the chair. “Why don’t you throw that thing out the window?” he gruffed.

Bewildered, I remained speechless, unsure whether he knew it was a novel. He asked me again, “If I die today, do you know what words I’ll leave you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, I’ll tell you to burn all your books and don’t try to be a scholar.”

“Why?”

“As a scholar, you’re just a piece of meat on a chopping board, whereas others are cleavers and axes that can hack you at will.”

I was shocked by the ferocity in his tone and made no response. He went on, “I tell you, it’s no use studying books. Nothing is serious in the academic game, just a play of words and sophistries. There are no original ideas, only platitudes. All depends on how cleverly you can toss out the jargon.” He paused to catch his breath, then asked, “Do you remember the man from Tanling University who gave a talk here last winter?”

“You mean Professor Miao?”

“Yes, Mr. Miao, the windbag, who’s good at speaking in quotes. Only a moron like that can direct a comparative literature department. I know ten times more than he does.”

Though that might be true, I felt uncomfortable about his haughtiness, which contradicted his usual self, a modest, affable scholar.

“Ah,” he yawned to the whitewashed ceiling. “ ‘With ten thousand books stored in my mind, / Why should I grovel in the wilds?’ ” He was quoting the couplet from an ancient poem. I watched him silently.

He seemed to be listening to something, then cried out, “Fakes, fakes, all are fakes! You must write a book to expose those fakes! Kick their butts in their own game!”

“But I’ve burned the books, burned them all. How could I write such a thing?” I said offhandedly.

“What? Save them! Save the books! They’re not bourgeois poisonous weeds. You shouldn’t take them away from me and feed them to the fire like dried leaves. Please don’t confiscate my books, don’t burn them. I’m kneeling down to you, little brothers and sisters. Oh, please have mercy! I beg you, comrades, please!”

I didn’t expect my words would cause such an outburst. He must have remembered the scene of his home being ransacked by the Red Guards more than twenty years before. It was a well-known anecdote that he had knelt down at some Red Guards’ feet, clasping his hands and imploring them not to seize his books and throw them into a bonfire in the playing field. They ignored him, of course.

“Water, water! Put out the fire!” he yelled, twisting as though surrounded by flames.

How I regretted having blurted out those spiteful words. Books were his life, and without them he would have been incapacitated. If he had been sane, the instruction “burn all your books” would never have come from him.

“Water, water! They’re burning my soul,” he groaned, still squirming.

I went over to see what was bothering him. “What’s hurting?” I asked.

“Water, I want to pass water,” he moaned.

My goodness, he was wobbling like this because of a full bladder. What an imaginative response to the visionary flames swallowing his books. I removed the blanket, raised the upper part of his body to make him sit up, and separated his legs. From under the bed I took out the flat enamel chamber pot and placed it between his thighs. Then I untied his pajamas, but he couldn’t urinate in such a posture. Aware of the problem, slowly he moved forward into a more prostrate position with his elbows supporting his upper body. Having pulled down his pajamas, I helped him spread his legs so that a little cave was made under his abdomen. Thank heaven, he wasn’t too fat; a larger belly would have left no room for the chamber pot. I moved the mouth of the pot under his penis, which had shrunk almost to nothing, a mere tiny knot with a ring of foreskin. Then slowly came out a line of yellowish urine, falling into the pot with a dull gurgle.

I had helped him relieve himself before, which hadn’t bothered me much, but today somehow it revolted me. I felt giddy and like vomiting. Look at this mountain of anomalous flesh! Look at this ugly, impotent body! What a hideous fruit of the futile “clerical” life, disfigured by the times and misfortunes. He reminded me of a giant larva, boneless and lethargic. Though desperately I wanted to run away, I had to stay until he was done. The foul odor was scratching my nostrils, stifling me, and I tried not to breathe. Yet despite my revulsion, my horrified eyes never left him.

When he was finally finished, I removed the chamber pot and put it under the bed. I brushed a V-shaped pubic hair off the sheet and with gritted teeth helped him lie down on his back. Then I rushed out of the room. The second I got into the corridor, I began vomiting. The spinach and rice inside me churned and gushed out, splashing on the floor again and again until my stomach was empty and started aching. My legs buckled, and I put out my hand on the wall for support to get out of the building for some fresh air.

The breeze cooled me down a little, though my face still felt bloated and a buzzing went on in my ears. Something continued tugging at my insides. About fifty yards away, near the cypress hedge, a man in green rubber boots and a yellow jersey with the sleeves rolled up was hosing down an ambulance, the water dancing iridescently on the white hood. At the front entrance to the hospital a pair of red flags waved languidly. I had clenched my jaws so hard that my temples hurt.

26

Mrs. Yang came back from Tibet, but she could attend her husband only in the evening. During the day she had to go to work at her agricultural school in an eastern suburb. On the day after she returned, a distant cousin of Mr. Yang’s, hired by our department, arrived from their hometown in Henan Province. This man, with gapped teeth and thinning hair, would take care of Mr. Yang in the daytime from now on, so Banping and I were relieved. However, I still went to see our teacher every day, usually after dinner in the evening, staying there about half an hour. Apart from seeing how he was doing, I was eager to seek information about Meimei, of which her mother could hardly give me any.

On Wednesday evening I arrived at the hospital later than usual. Mrs. Yang, needle in hand, was darning a calico shirt for her husband; on her middle finger was a gilt thimble like a broad ring. For the first time I saw her in reading glasses. Though the spectacles made her appear older, they brought out a kind of equanimity in her bearing that I hadn’t noticed before. Her features were gentle and amiable, as if she were at their home—she looked like a devoted wife. Mr. Yang, sitting on the bed with his head drooping aside, was humming something, perhaps the tune of a folk song. I remained quiet with both hands in my pants pockets, my back leaning against the jamb of the window. Mrs. Yang lifted her half-gray head and gave me a smile, her face pallid and slightly bloated as though she were suffering from dropsy. She must have been very exhausted. On the windowsill sat a large cassette player; beside it were two tapes piled together. I recognized the contents of the top tape—
20 Most Popular Songs,
most of which had mellow tunes. Mrs. Yang must have played them to her husband to prevent him from chanting those belligerent songs.

Out of the blue Mr. Yang yelled, “Dance for me! Sway your hips!”

“What do you want, dear?” his wife asked with a start.

“I want you to dance for me.”

“You know I can’t dance.”

“Of course you can, you do it for every man.”

“Wh—why do you say that?”

“You did it when I was away, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“You slept with him.”

She lowered her head, her face livid though her hands kept stitching the collar of his shirt. I was too taken aback to say anything.

He began crooning an old song, which was on the tape. He sang in a feminine voice:

I lift the saucers clinking them.
Ditties are easy to sing
But my mouth is hard to open.
Line by line I cannot lament enough
Human suffering, yet my songs
Please the rich and powerful.

The hook of a crescent shines
On high mansions, every one
Of which was built by poor men.
But in the teeth of winter
The wealthy smile gleefully
While the needy freeze in grief.

My head went numb as a shiver ran down my spine. I regretted having come to see him this evening, to be caught in such a flash of domestic madness. Noiselessly I tiptoed over to Mrs. Yang and whispered, “We can ask the nurse to calm him down. Do you want me to do that?”

“No need.” She shook her head in despair. “Let him get his anger out. It’ll make him feel better.” Her tone of voice revealed that she was already familiar with this kind of rage and abuse. Although she sounded very rational, her eyes were wet. She looked mortified as she raised the shirt to her mouth to nip off the mending thread.

“Dance for me, bare your shameless thighs!” he yelled.

I looked at his wife, whose face was taut in agony, her thin jaws clenched. I felt so awful I said to her, “I should be going.” Without waiting for her reply, I hurried out of the room.

I stayed a while outside the door and overheard Mrs. Yang shout at him, “Don’t ever do this to me again, Shenmin! You mustn’t pour out your hogwash in front of others! You made a buffoon of yourself. Now stop that! Stop smiling like an imbecile!”

In response he hit on another song, singing with some gusto. She began sobbing.

For some reason Mr. Yang had grown more delirious and more obstreperous these days. He often yelled at others, especially at his cousin, who never talked back. Apparently he didn’t recognize the man as a relative, though the poor fellow always called him Elder Brother. Two days ago Mr. Yang had even refused to eat, and the nurses tied him up so that they could give him an intravenous drip of glucose. However hard his wife tried, she couldn’t placate him.

On Thursday morning I ran into Professor Song in the classroom building, though lately I had avoided crossing his path. He told me to devote myself completely to the last leg of the preparation for the Ph.D. exams, which were just a week away. I thanked him halfheartedly.

Despite having time now, I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Whenever I picked up a book, my mind would wander. For two weeks I had been in a quandary, unable to muster my resolve either to cancel my application officially or to resume preparing for the exams. I often went swimming in the afternoons. I missed Meimei terribly but dared not write to her.

Strange to say, Secretary Peng assigned me some new work. The Party branch of our department was considering inducting Banping Fang into the Party and was investigating the personal history of his immediate relatives to make sure his family background was clear. Ying Peng wanted me to help with the investigation. This assignment was quite odd because I wasn’t a Party member and shouldn’t have been involved in it. As a rule, trips of this kind were entrusted only to the faculty members in the Party, not to a graduate student like me. What was Ying Peng hatching? If only I could have seen through her machinations. Though doubtful, I had to accept the job.

“According to regulations we shouldn’t let you go to Yimeng County,” Secretary Peng said to me in her office. “But we don’t have anyone else available at the moment. Besides, it’s an easy job and will take you only two or three days.”

I nodded to show my gratitude for her seeming trust, though I wondered all the while why she deliberately interrupted my preparation for the exams, which she still believed I was going to take.

She told me, “Three months ago, we sent an investigation letter to Hanlong Commune where Banping’s uncle lives, but we haven’t gotten a word back yet. We need an answer immediately. Your task is to go there and get the reply from the local Party branch. There’s a form in the letter. Make sure they fill it out properly. You see, it’s very simple, just a procedural thing.”

“Sounds good, thanks,” I said.

“I know you’re busy now, but our Party branch must give final consideration to Banping’s application for membership before he graduates. You’re his friend and should help him.”

“Of course, I’d love to go to Yimeng County for a couple of days. Mr. Yang’s illness has really gotten to me and turned me into an insomniac. A trip to the countryside will definitely help, and I’ll come back with a fresh mind.” The moment I finished the last sentence, I realized my tongue had gone loose. She might intend to undo me. This trip was by no means just “a procedural thing”; it must be a move in her scheme of things, which I couldn’t figure out yet.

Her sparse eyebrows joined and her forehead puckered as though she had smelled something unpleasant, then a smile broke on her large face. She said, “That’s fine. I hope the trip will put your mind back in good order. But don’t let Banping know where you’re going. Keep this secret, we trust you.”

“I won’t breathe a word.”

“Good.”

With a black fountain pen she wrote me an official letter, which informed the Party branch in the countryside about my mission and would enable me to obtain board and lodging on the way. “Here, you’re all set. You can leave tomorrow morning. Have a pleasant trip.” She smiled as a double chin appeared at her throat.

Having left her office, I wondered why Professor Song as the chairman of the department hadn’t mentioned my new assignment this morning when I bumped into him. Maybe it wasn’t the Party branch, of which Mr. Song was also a leader, but Ying Peng herself who was sending me on the trip. By rule, she ought to have informed Professor Song of my new work. Why did she keep this so underhanded? Why was she so interested in me? I had never applied for Party membership, and politically I was a straggler, the last person who should participate in this business. She had never trusted me. Then why would she let me take part in the investigation?