Three Sisters (33 page)

Afraid that the teacher would give her the coup de grâce, she made sure that she didn't turn her back on him, but she didn't want to stay where she was, either. That was just too awkward. She seemed to be waiting, but in vain, since the teacher had no intention of letting her rejoin the chorus. He'd forgotten all about her. So there she stood, biting down on her lip, her eyes downcast. And then she made an accidental discovery: The ugly round tips of her cloth shoes looked horribly unsophisticated. Taking two steps back, she tried to hide her shoes, but to no avail. Now she was truly ashamed, ashamed of her countrified appearance. Luckily, she was no longer the dumb little girl she'd once been, and she knew how to get out of this. She walked up to the teacher. "Teacher, I don't feel well. May I be excused?" He was too engrossed in his conducting to hear her, so she repeated, "Teacher, I'd like to be excused."

Now he heard her, and without even turning to look, he waved her away, assigning the responsibility for consent to his wrist. As she walked off, she forgot to swing her arms because her fists were still balled at her sides. The stiffness in her movements nearly caused her to goose-step out of the warehouse. The dozen or so steps seemed to take all her energy, each one stomping on her heart.

Sun Jianqiang was relieved of duty that evening. Without a word of explanation, the homeroom teacher simply put up a new list of committee members, replacing Sun's name as athletic committee member with that of the Section Three class representative, and added "also serving" in parenthesis next to that name. A class meeting was called during the evening study period, and the teacher gave a short speech expressing his wish that the students not "give up on themselves" and not be "too clever," for "nothing good" would come of either of those. He did not have to name names for them to know whom he was referring to. Sun Jianqiang was not likely to be passing the ball to the teacher on the basketball court anytime soon. But he was not the intended target of the phrase "too clever," since he could hardly be called even a little clever. That was meant for Zhao Shanshan, whom the teacher glanced at during his speech. Zhao was not stupid, which she proved by lowering her head. Now she knew that she would not fare any better than Sun if she didn't get behind Pang Fenghua or find a way to get on her good side. Her date of "execution" was not far off; she was living on borrowed time.

Yuyang was dejected at not being allowed into the chorus to celebrate 12-9, but she refused to let herself sink into defeat. So she went to the library to study, and when she found that she was unable to focus, she picked up a detective novel by Agatha Christie and was immediately hooked. Reading a novel a day, she soon finished the entire series. They had different story lines, crime scenes, and modi operandi, but the same deductive method was used to catch the murderer in each one. Logic was the starting point and the central technique in moving the plot forward to its climactic ending. Grouping Christie's novels together, Yuyang realized that, except for the mustachioed Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, everyone connected to the crime was a suspect because they all had motive, time, method, and opportunity. Everyone was involved in the crime, and no one could claim innocence. Feeling that her eyes were wiped clean by the novels, Yuyang gained a renewed understanding of underground work and was emboldened to carry out her mission. She believed that the systematic reading would enable her to do an even better job pleasing Teacher Wei and putting those in the organization at ease.

Yuyang did not take the novels back to her dorm or to the classroom—better not to take books like that out of the library, where an air of research and contemplation gave this reading legitimacy. Exerting extra effort, she jotted down her reactions in a notebook as she read along. In addition to the contents of those notes, she gained something concrete—she met and eventually got to know Chu Tian of Section One of the class of '81, the school's most famous poet.

Not noticeably handsome and a bit on the skinny side, Chu had an unremarkable appearance. Compared to the other boys, he stood out only because of his hair, which was not only longer than everyone else's, but it was also unusually messy—like a pile of chicken feathers. The hint of suffering on his face gave him an ascetic air and in turn made him unique. He hardly ever spoke to anyone, for he was arrogant and proud beyond words, and Yuyang had heard that the average student could only dream of getting to know him. Chu Tian, whose real name was Gao Honghai, was a country boy; but he was now Chu Tian, no longer Gao Honghai. The new name gave him a complete makeover, turning a tall, reedy youngster into someone not quite real and transcendent, as vast and as distant as the sky. His unique airs set him apart and instilled in him the sort of artistic temperament that was seen as so important by the teachers. In fact, Chu Tian had a very low sense of self-esteem, but his neurotic and reserved manner sent out a sparkle—a cold, haughty, superior, and conceited sparkle that was, naturally, the glittery evidence of his supremacy. Yuyang never dared look directly at him, and deep down she revered him, especially after reading his poem on the bulletin board. She was amazed at how he had referred to 12-9 as "you," as if he were pointing to a person.

He was audacious, presumptuous, and willful, and yet he sounded so urgent and insistent, as if he could summon up such things at will. Just listen, and imagine him pointing with his left hand.

You
12-9
Are a torch

Then he points with his right hand.

You
12-9
Are a bugle

Who else but Chu Tian could use "you" in such a heroic and carefree manner, and make it sound so spontaneous and ingenious? And what did he mean by "You're sonorous / You're aflame"? That was magical, inconceivable. The lack of punctuation only increased the singular quality of his poetry.

She had heard that an elderly teacher had once questioned Chu Tian about the lack of punctuation. He had replied with only a sneer, turning the teacher's face so red that it looked as if it were about to explode. When the teacher proctored an exam, he kept a close check on Chu Tian, hoping to catch him cheating so he could give him a warning.

But Chu Tian did not need to cheat, for he excelled in every subject except physical education. He was part of the landscape—someone of interest at the school, coming and going alone, ignoring everyone. No one meant a thing to him, not even Director Qian. With her own eyes Yuyang had seen Chu Tian walk past the director, head held high as he refused to acknowledge the man's existence. And yet, the famous and intractable Chu Tian actually spoke to her; in fact, it was he who started the conversation. She was sure that no one would believe her.

It was noon. Yuyang stood at the magazine rack, holding
Poetry Journal
in one hand and picking her nose with the other. Chu Tian was standing beside her, staring at her intensely. She looked up, saw him, and dropped the magazine. He bent down, picked it up, and handed it back to her.

With a cordial smile that had no hint of superiority, he asked, "Like poetry?"

Finding it impossible that he would actually be talking to her, Yuyang turned to see if someone was standing behind her before she responded with a nod. He smiled again. His teeth were uneven and discolored, but at that moment they seemed bright and sparkling. She wished that she could smooth her hair, but it was too late, for he'd already floated away. Yuyang stared until Chu Tian disappeared behind a door before realizing that her face was burning hot and her unreasonable heart was pounding wildly.
This is none of your business, heart.

She stood there, savoring what had just happened, asking herself over and over, "Like poetry?" Her mind refused to concentrate, and when she returned to her seat, she picked up her pen and began to doodle.

Like poetry
Yes
Like poetry
Yes
Like poetry
Yes
Like poetry
Yes
Like poetry
Yes I do
Like poetry
Yes yes I do

She looked down at her notebook, shocked to see that she was writing poetry. This was poetry. What else could it be? Sadly, she realized that she had been a poet all along. What a pleasant surprise—she was already a poet.

The new poet sat in her seat with a blank look on her face, but she could feel her heart flutter as she recited silently.

You—Chu Tian
Are a torch
You—Chu Tian
Are a bugle
You're sonorous
You're aflame

She was amazed when she finally recovered her senses. She remained motionless while the wind blew wildly against the branches outside.

Once you meet someone, it seems that you're always running into each other. That is exactly what happened to Yuyang and Chu Tian. They ran into each other over and over—in the cafeteria, on the athletic field, and, of course, in the library. But mostly it happened when they were headed somewhere. It was invariably accidental, but to Yuyang, the repeated encounters began to take on a special meaning and became a secret that she buried deep in her heart. Girls of her age are good at keeping secrets; they keep a tidy record of neatly categorized secrets in a corner known only to themselves, with a tender wish for two hearts to beat in unison.
Like I'm a part of you and you're a part of me.

To Yuyang, the campus seemed to have shrunk now that it felt as if there were only the two of them. Life on campus had a miniature quality that enabled her to manipulate it. For instance, she might be walking along on campus when she'd have a sudden premonition that she would run into Chu Tian. So she'd turn or look around and there he'd be.

There was even an extreme example. One day when she was in her dorm room, she was suddenly restless and felt an urge to go out for a walk. She went downstairs and had barely taken a dozen steps before—there he was again. He wasn't looking at her, but she was overwhelmed, yes, overwhelmed, nearly to the point of tears. She was positive that heaven was on her side, secretly helping her; otherwise, how could such coincidences take place? Chu Tian was intentionally keeping his eyes averted, which had to mean that he was thinking about her. She knew she wasn't pretty, but he was a poet, and poets have tastes that cannot be judged by ordinary standards. His attitude toward her only confirmed the fact that he was different from everyone else.

Every encounter felt blissful to her and constituted a moment of sheer joy. The feeling could even be characterized as intoxication, though that is an uncommonly vile thing that always stands in opposition to you. Intoxication is invariably brief and disappears before you know it. Then comes the endless, bottomless waiting while you yearn for it to happen again, like an addict.

And so intoxication is a void, a boundless entanglement and a lingering that accompanies a sense of loss and heartache, as well as an unending anticipation and waiting. Intoxication is essentially a different kind of suffering, a dull torture.

But for Yuyang defeat was nullified by patience, and even more by a sense of excitement.

She asked herself what was happening to her. It took a long time, but she finally realized that what she felt for Chu Tian was, simply stated, tender affection. She was attracted by his chicken-feather hair, his solitude, his knitted brows, and the way he walked. Everything about him demanded that someone bestow tender affection on him and cherish him. Yuyang knew she was the only one who could do that. If a rock were to fall from the sky and threaten Chu Tian, she would shield him with her body. She wished she could find a way to let him know that she was prepared to stop at nothing to make sure nothing happened to him.

Yuyang had never thought that she could be so daring, that she could act improperly, shamefully even. Where had she found the courage to be so bold? On this particular evening, she followed Chu Tian with her eyes until he entered the library. Then, after hesitating in the doorway for a moment, she walked in and found him seated on a bench in the reading room. Sitting down next to him, she took out a book and pretended to be engrossed in it. It did not matter what she was reading; what mattered was the reality that she was sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Since they were in the library, no one could spot anything unusual, especially because she sat with her eyes lowered, as if everything were perfectly normal. But her face burned red the whole time, and that made her very unhappy. Whoever said "The eyes are the window to the soul" was an idiot. For a person in love, it is the face, not the eyes, that is the window to the soul. Her window was bright red, as if the character for happiness had been painted on her face. How could she hide her feelings from anyone? She couldn't. Chu Tian turned his head when she gave a dry cough. She knew he'd done that, which instantly changed everything in her—body and soul. Her heart skipped a beat before it began to sink, darkly and slowly, to an indescribable place, while her body turned strangely light and drifted upward.

The air in the reading room compressed, yet the light felt moist as it caressed and gently stroked her. She felt like crying, but not out of sadness. No, she wasn't sad; she just wanted to cry and cry until her body fell apart, which was the only way she could explain how she felt inside. But she composed herself, then took out from her bag the brand-new hardbound notebook that she'd recently bought. Opening it to the first page, she began to copy in neat handwriting the poem Chu Tian had posted on the bulletin board.

You
12-9
Are a torch
You
12-9
Are a bugle
You're sonorous
You're aflame

She added a dash and his real name, Gao Honghai, and conferred on his name the sort of significance one associates with names like Gorky, Shakespeare, and Balzac. Unsure if the "Hong" in his name was the character for "red" or for "flood," she eventually settled on the latter since it was more common for a boy to have "flood" in his name. After finishing the task, she wrote her name in the lower right-hand corner of the cover followed by, after a moment's reflection, her year and class, as well as her dorm room number. Originally she'd thought she'd be nervous, but she wasn't and, in fact, was uncharacteristically calm. With a somber look, she pushed the notebook away from her before getting up and walking out. It was at that moment, when she was leaving the library, that a panicky feeling began to spread through her body, all the way to her fingertips. But there was nothing she could do about that now, so she ignored it.