In the Pond

Five

THE WORKERS HEARD of Bin’s disrupting the election, and they were impressed. They had taken him for a mere bookworm, but all of a sudden he had emerged as a man of both strategy and action. Naturally some young workers shook hands with him.

“Brother Shao, well done,” one said.

“Bin,” another chimed in, “you did it for us. We must show them that we workers are the masters here.”

Their words moved Bin and boosted his confidence. For days he felt lighthearted and was convinced that Liu and Ma’s silence meant they were shaken by what had happened at the election. Indeed, if he had undone their boss, he could ruin them easily.

Emboldened by his fellow workers’ compliments, Bin decided to pursue the tottering enemy. He started pondering how to compose another cartoon about the two leaders; since the Spring Festival was around the corner, he didn’t want them to have a peaceful holiday. Besides, it was the time when officials throughout China were busy raking in new perks, receiving gifts, and bribing their superiors and related powers. As a good citizen, Bin regarded it as his duty to sound a timely alarm against corruption.

After his wife and baby went to sleep, Bin ate two raw eggs directly from the shells and drank a large mug of hot malted milk. Then he began to grind the ink stick and wet a brush. Spreading a sheet of paper on the desk, he set about painting.

He drew two human figures in motion and made sure they resembled Liu and Ma. To identify them as cadres, a copy of Handbook for Party Secretaries, marked with the emblem of a hammer and a sickle, was inserted under Liu’s arm, and a lumpy official seal was attached to Ma’s broad waistband. They each had a garland of giant garlic around the neck and carried a bottle of Maotai liquor in a trouser pocket. Two packsacks full of pineapples and oranges were on their backs, and to a belt of each sack were tied a pair of fluttering roosters, upside down and with their claws bound. Around each man’s knees, four large carp were twirling and gasping in a string bag, whose mouth was grasped in the man’s left hand, while his right held two cartons of Great China cigarettes. In every one of their breast pockets was stuck a bundle of ten-yuan bills. The gifts were so heavy that both men dropped beads of sweat and walked with bandy legs. Yet they smiled ecstatically, the corners of their mouths reaching their ears.

Done with the drawing, Bin paused for a moment. Absently he dipped a smaller brush, made of weasel’s whiskers, into the ink. What title should I give it? he wondered. “Gifts for the Spring Festival”? No, that’s too flat. “On the Way Home”? No, a good title must cut to the quick, able to spur the reader and bite the enemy.

After several minutes’ thinking, he wrote these words at the top of the paper: “So Hard to Celebrate a Holiday!”

The next afternoon he mailed the cartoon to The Workers’ Daily in Beijing, a union newspaper that didn’t have a large circulation but was read throughout China.

The work accomplished, Bin felt joyful. Soon his joy was replaced by ecstasy. In his mind Chairman Mao’s instruction began reverberating: “The boundless joy in fighting Heaven, the boundless joy in fighting Earth, the boundless joy in fighting Man!” Those words, representing the mettle of the proletariat, warmed Bin’s heart and invigorated his blood; he felt younger, as though he had eaten a lot of ginseng or deer antler. Yes, with his brush, he was ready to engage any enemy.

The secret investigation of Bin’s family background and recent activities was completed. To the leaders’ dismay, nothing substantial was dug up. Bin’s father had been a beggar in the old China for over thirty years, all the relatives had been poor peasants, and none had ever become a target in a political movement. In this respect Bin was clean like a piece of blank paper. As for Bin himself, only a few small things were found. Two years before, when he was repairing an air blower in the plant’s dining center, he had eaten four raw eggs on the sly. Later he was criticized for that, and he paid for the eggs and turned in a twelve-page self-criticism, which was still kept in his file. This case had been closed, however, and was of little use now except for proving that he wasn’t an honest man. His indecency was further verified by his submitting a false voucher to Finance. The winter before, he had been sent to Ox Village to help install a water pump; he had stayed there for only two days, but he had applied for three days’ reimbursement, receiving sixty fen more than he should have. Though the money was little, it showed he couldn’t be trusted, especially when money was involved. His dishonesty could be attested to further by another incident: without telling anybody, Bin had once taken home a plant-owned book, Bicycle Repairs. Not until a fellow worker saw it in his home two months later did he bring back this piece of public property. By then, Maintenance had already purchased a new copy of the book. If a man had stolen fruit, no doubt he would steal an orchard when the opportunity turned up.

All these indecencies, however, were not weighty enough to bring him down. In their report to Secretary Yang, in addition to describing the defects in Bin’s character, the leaders had to mention the artistic works he had published and the two awards his paintings had won. It’s common sense that one glamorous quality can eclipse a dozen slight blemishes. Both Liu and Ma felt that in a way they’d done Bin a favor in having the report prepared, because Secretary Yang would be more impressed by his talent and energy than interested in those trifles. If so, they might indeed create an opportunity for him. To prevent that from happening, they stressed the point that he suffered from a mental disorder and was an inefficient, unreliable worker.

The cartoon appeared in The Workers’ Daily two weeks later. Bin was amazed that it had come out so soon; on second thought, he realized the editors would surely have wanted to publish it before the Spring Festival so as to combat the unhealthy wind in society.

Indeed the cartoon was timely enough to ruin the leaders’ festive mood. After they saw it, Liu and Ma sent for Bin and planned to teach him a bloody lesson, at least making him unable to enjoy the holiday. They waited and waited, but Bin never showed up.

By no means would Bin go to their offices alone. What if they beat him black and blue? He mustn’t take such a risk, having himself hurt before the festival. He wasn’t that stupid and could see through them. According to Sun Tzu’s Art of War, among the thirty-six stratagems the most important one is to decamp in time. Yes, he had best go home as soon as possible. Damn the two idiots, they thought he didn’t know about the knives up their sleeves. If they wanted to take revenge, they had better get hold of him first.

He put away his files and claw hammer, took off the work suit and oversleeves, and left for the bicycle shed. After aligning the front wheel of his National Defense with its head tube, he pedaled away without indulging in the habit of ringing the bell on the handlebar. At the entrance of the plant, he got off the bicycle and stuck a copy of the cartoon on the notice board with a piece of friction tape.

Immediately a score of workers gathered there, looking at it and talking noisily. A middle-aged woman said, “No wonder Liu Shu is so fat. Stuffed with others’ meat and fish.”

“No, without sweat and blood,” an old man corrected her.

“Who gave them Maotai?”

“That must’ve cost a fortune. Who’s so rich?”

“Wow! So many pineapples.”

In the secretary’s office the two leaders had not yet recovered from the shock delivered by the cartoon. Now all of China knew they were two corrupt officials, sucking people’s blood and taking bribes. This was sheer calumny, and Shao Bin would have to pay for it. Without delay they began gathering the facts needed for proving their innocence. Neither of them had ever received garlic from anybody; in fact, Ma hated garlic, often saying he would have banned the plant if he were a god, and he wouldn’t allow his wife to use it even when she cooked fish. Nor had they ever eaten a fresh pineapple, which was an exotic southern fruit. As for Maotai, it was impossible for either of them to obtain a bottle here; if you searched all of Dismount Fort, you wouldn’t be able to find one. Never had Secretary Liu tasted a drop of that liquor, and he swore he had only heard of it, whereas Ma had once drunk two glasses of it in Changchun City, where he had played basketball. That was twenty years before. Nowadays there was a shortage of everything except for human beings; nobody here could possibly have the finest Chinese liquor. It was said that only at a state banquet was Maotai served, and that most of the produce of the winery was exported to Japan and South Asia. Ah, those foreigners, they always have the best Chinese stuff!

“Damn the mad dog!” Liu cursed. “If I’d ever taken a drop of Maotai, I wouldn’t feel so wronged.”

“Forget about Maotai,” Ma said. “It tastes similar to West Phoenix, it’s just a name. What should we do about him now? Wait until the festival is over?”

“No way.”

They thought of sending a group of men to smash Bin’s home, breaking all the pots, basins, bowls, and plates, but the Shaos lived in the department store’s dormitory, which had an entrance guard on duty day and night. And it was unwise to do that, because the other residents would witness the scene. Besides, Bin’s wife had a lot of relatives in the villages; those peasants wouldn’t think twice about killing if they came to avenge her. How about asking the town police to detain Bin for the holiday season? This didn’t seem practicable either. They heard that the young policeman Shen Li was also an amateur painter and had once taken lessons from Bin. Undoubtedly, the student would release the teacher, since by custom you ought to regard your teacher as a lifelong father, even if he had taught you just one day. Stop paying him his wages? There was no rule that allowed them to do so, unless he was a criminal.

They were still talking when Bao, the union chairman, rushed in and said loudly, “Secretary Liu and Director Ma, the plant is upside down. Lots of people are at the notice board, looking at the picture. They want to know who gave you Maotai.”

“What?” Liu stood up, wringing his hands. “Screw their mothers!”

“Let’s go have a look,” Ma said.

They went to the front entrance, where about seventy workers gathered, cursing and chatting. It was snowing, the gray ground becoming white. At the sight of the leaders, the crowd quieted down. Both Liu and Ma could feel the pressure of the silence, which seemed to demand that they confess everything on the spot. Liu went up the brick steps at the front of Guard’s Office, and he turned around to face the workers. For some reason he felt like laughing, but he restrained himself. A snowflake landed on his nose; though tickled by it, he didn’t wipe it off. Ma limped over and joined him, standing one step lower.

“Comrades,” Liu shouted, then stopped to clear his throat. “Comrades, don’t take this drawing seriously. Shao Bin is a lunatic and always imagines things. Director Ma can’t stand the smell of garlic. You all know that. How could he take a braid of garlic as a gift?”

“Have you ever seen me eat garlic?” Ma asked.

Seeing a few people shake their heads, Liu said again, “Shao Bin painted that we each received a bag of pineapples. That’s a lie. To be honest, I’ve never seen a fresh pineapple. I don’t know how big it is. I’ve only eaten canned pineapple once and have no idea how people eat a fresh one. Do you peel it, or cut it, or boil it, or pickle it? Tell me how. Come on, some of you are from the South and must know how to handle a fresh pineapple.”

“Cut it!” a male voice shouted from the back. Some people laughed.

“I’ve never eaten a pineapple either,” Ma said. “Never seen one except in the movies.”

“Tell me again,” Liu went on, “who among you ever saw a bottle of Maotai?”

The crowd remained silent, though some eyes were still glaring at the leaders. Liu continued, “To tell you the truth, I’ve never seen a bottle. I don’t know what it looks like, to say nothing of what it tastes like. Shao Bin’s drawing is pure slander. If any of you have a bottle, show me. I’ll invite you to my home and treat you to ten courses. I won’t ask for more, just give me a small glass. That’ll make me feel I haven’t lived so long for nothing.”

A woman giggled. A puff of snow was swirling around Liu’s felt hat. He seized the moment and announced, “Comrades, I swear by my great-grandfather’s tomb-stone that if I have ever seen a bottle of Maotai, if I have ever tasted a drop of Maotai, I am a cuckold!”

“Me too!” Ma shouted. Then it occurred to him that he had drunk the liquor. Good heavens, how could he take back those words in front of this mob!

Liu was shocked by Ma’s declaration, and he couldn’t help squinting at him.

Seeing the secretary’s fat lips purplish with rage and the director’s face carmine, the workers were convinced that the leaders had told the truth. They could tell that the leaders would have skinned Bin alive if they had grabbed hold of him. Lucky for him, he wasn’t here. A few people at the back turned and were leaving.

Though the workers were calmed down, the cartoon spoiled the leaders’ Spring Festival. Unlike other years, when they would have twice the amount of rice, meat, fish, sugar, and soybean oil a worker had, this year they took home only the same portion as everyone in the plant. It was better not to cause any discontent at the moment; but wait, they would get everything back from Shao Bin and make him serve them like a grandson.