The Bridegroom: Stories

The Bridegroom

Before Beina’s father died, I promised him that I’d take care of his daughter. He and I had been close friends for twenty years. He left his only child with me because my wife and I had no children of our own. It was easy to keep my word when Beina was still a teenager. As she grew older, it became more difficult, not because she was willful or troublesome, but because no man was interested in her, a short, homely girl. When she turned twenty-three and still had no boyfriend, I began to worry. Where could I find her a husband? Timid and quiet, she didn’t know how to get close to a man. I was afraid she’d end up an old maid.

Then, out of the blue, Huang Baowen proposed to her. I found myself at a loss, because they’d hardly known each other. How could he be serious about his offer? I feared he might make a fool of Beina, so I insisted they get engaged if he meant business. He came to my home with two trussed-up capons, four cartons of Ginseng cigarettes, two bottles of Five Grains’ Sap, and one tall tin of oolong tea. I was pleased, though not very impressed by his gifts.

Two months later they got married. My colleagues congratulated me, saying, “That was fast, Old Cheng.”

What a relief to me. But to many young women in our sewing machine factory, Beina’s marriage was a slap in the face. They’d say, “A hen cooped up a peacock.” Or, “A fool always lands in the arms of fortune.” True, Baowen had been one of the most handsome unmarried men in the factory, and nobody had expected that Beina, stocky and stout, would win him. What’s more, Baowen was good-natured and well educated — a middle school graduate — and he didn’t smoke or drink or gamble. He had fine manners and often smiled politely, showing his bright, straight teeth. In a way he resembled a woman, delicate, clear-skinned, and soft-spoken; he even could knit things out of wool. But no men dared bully him because he was skilled at martial arts. Three times in a row he had won the first prize for kung fu at our factory’s annual sports meet. He was very good at the long sword and freestyle boxing. When he was in middle school, bigger boys had often picked on him, so his stepfather had sent him to the martial arts school in their hometown. A year later, nobody would bug him again.

Sometimes I couldn’t help wondering why Baowen had fallen for Beina. What in her had caught his heart? Did he really like her fleshy face, which often reminded me of a blowfish? Although we had our doubts, my wife and I couldn’t say anything negative about the marriage. Our only concern was that Baowen might be too good for our adopted daughter. Whenever I heard that somebody had divorced, I’d feel a sudden flutter of panic.

As the head of the Security Section in the factory, I had some pull and did what I could to help the young couple. Soon after their wedding, I secured them a brand-new two-bedroom apartment, which angered some people waiting in line for housing. I wasn’t daunted by their criticism. I’d do almost anything to make Beina’s marriage a success, because I believed that if it survived the first two years, it might last decades — once Baowen became a father, it would be difficult for him to break loose.

But after they’d been married for eight months, Beina still wasn’t pregnant. I was afraid that Baowen would soon grow tired of her and run after another woman, as many young women in the factory were still attracted to him. A brazen one even declared she’d leave her door open for him all night long. Some of them frequently offered him movie tickets and meat coupons. It seemed that they were determined to wreck Beina’s marriage. I hated them, and just the thought of them would give me an earache or a sour stomach. Fortunately, Baowen hadn’t yet done anything outside the bounds of a decent husband.

One morning in early November, Beina stepped into my office. “Uncle,” she said in a tearful voice, “Baowen didn’t come home last night.”

I tried to remain calm, though my head began to swim. “Do you know where he’s been?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I looked for him everywhere.” She licked her cracked lips and took off her green work cap, her hair in a huge bun.

“When did you see him last?”

“At dinner yesterday evening. He said he was going to see somebody. He has lots of buddies in town.”

“Is that so?” I didn’t know he had many friends. “Don’t worry. Go back to your workshop and don’t tell anybody about this. I’ll call around and find him.”

She dragged herself out of my office. She must have gained at least a dozen pounds since the wedding. Her blue dungarees had become so tight that they seemed about to burst. Viewed from behind, she looked like a giant turnip.

I called the Rainbow Movie Theater, Victory Park, and a few restaurants in town. They all said they had not seen anyone matching Baowen’s description. Before I could phone the City Library where Baowen sometimes spent much of his weekends, a call came in. It was from the city’s Public Security Bureau. The man on the phone said they’d detained a worker of ours, named Huang Baowen. He wouldn’t tell me what had happened. He just said, “Indecent activity. Come as soon as you can.”

It was a cold day. As I cycled toward downtown, the shrill north wind kept flipping up the front ends of my overcoat. My knees were sore, and I couldn’t help shivering. Soon my asthma tightened my throat and I began moaning. I couldn’t stop cursing Baowen. “I knew it. I just knew it,” I said to myself. I had sensed that sooner or later he’d seek pleasure with another woman. Now he was in the hands of the police, and the whole factory would talk about him. How would Beina take this blow?

At the Public Security Bureau I was surprised to see that about a dozen officials from other factories, schools, and companies were already there. I knew most of them — they were in charge of security affairs at their workplaces. A policewoman conducted us into a conference room upstairs where green silk curtains hung in the windows. We sat down around a long mahogany table and waited to be briefed about the case. The glass tabletop was brand-new, its edge still sharp. I saw worry and confusion on the other men’s faces. I figured Baowen must have been involved in a major crime — either an orgy or a gang rape. On second thought, I was sure he couldn’t have been a rapist; by nature he was kindhearted, very gentle. I hoped this was not a political case, which would be absolutely unpardonable. Six or seven years ago, a half-wit and a high school graduate had started an association in our city, named the China Liberation Party, which eventually recruited nine members. Although the sparrow is small, it has a complete set of organs — their party elected a chairman, a secretary, and even a prime minister. But before they could print their manifesto, which expressed their intention to overthrow the government, the police rounded them up. Two of the top leaders were executed, and the rest of the members were jailed.

As I was wondering about the nature of Baowen’s crime, a middle-aged man came in. He had a solemn face, and his eyes were half-closed. He took off his dark-blue tunic, hung it on the back of a chair, and sat down at the end of the table. I recognized him; he was Chief Miao of the Investigation Department. Wearing a sheepskin jerkin, he somehow reminded me of Genghis Khan, thick-boned and round-faced. His hooded eyes were shrewd, though they looked sleepy. Without any opening remarks he declared that we had a case of homosexuality on our hands. At that, the room turned noisy. We’d heard that term before but didn’t know what it meant exactly. Seeing many of us puzzled, Chief Miao explained, “It’s a social disease, like gambling, or prostitution, or syphilis.” He kept on squirming as if itchy with hemorrhoids.

A young man from the city’s Fifth Middle School raised his hand. He asked, “What do homosexuals do?”

Miao smiled and his eyes almost disappeared. He said, “People of the same sex have a sexual relationship.”

“Sodomy!” cried someone.

The room turned quiet for at least ten seconds. Then somebody asked what kind of crime this was.

Chief Miao explained, “Homosexuality originated in Western capitalism and bourgeois lifestyle. According to our law it’s dealt with as a kind of hooliganism. Therefore, every one of the men we arrested will serve a sentence, from six months to five years, depending on the severity of his crime and his attitude toward it.”

A truck blew its horn on the street and made my heart twinge. If Baowen went to prison, Beina would live like a widow, unless she divorced him. Why had he married her to begin with? Why did he ruin her this way?

What had happened was that a group of men, mostly clerks, artists, and schoolteachers, had formed a club called Men’s World, a salon of sorts. Every Thursday evening they’d meet in a large room on the third floor of the office building of the Forestry Institute. Since the club admitted only men, the police suspected that it might be a secret association with a leaning toward violence, so they assigned two detectives to mix with the group. True, some of the men appeared to be intimate with one another in the club, but most of the time they talked about movies, books, and current events. Occasionally music was played, and they danced together. According to the detectives’ account, it was a bizarre, emotional scene. A few men appeared in pairs, unashamed of necking and cuddling in the presence of others, and some would say with tears, “At last we men have a place for ourselves.” A middle-aged painter wearing earrings exclaimed, “Now I feel alive! Only in here can I stop living in hypocrisy.” Every week, two or three new faces would show up. When the club grew close to thirty men, the police took action and arrested them all.

After Chief Miao’s briefing, we were allowed to meet with the criminals for fifteen minutes. A policeman led me into a small room in the basement and let me read Baowen’s confession while he went to fetch him. I glanced through the four pages of interrogation notes, which stated that Baowen had been new to the club, and that he’d joined them only twice, mainly because he was interested in their talks. Yet he didn’t deny he was a homosexual.

As it was next to a bathroom, the room smelled of urine. The policeman brought Baowen in and ordered him to sit opposite me at the table. Baowen, in handcuffs, avoided looking at me. His face was bloated, covered with bruises. A broad welt left by a baton, about four inches long, slanted across his forehead. The collar of his jacket was torn open. Yet he didn’t appear frightened. His calm manner angered me, though I felt sorry for him.

I kept a hard face and said, “Baowen, do you know you committed a crime?”

“I didn’t do anything. I just went there to listen to them talk.”

“You mean you didn’t do that thing with any man?” I wanted to make sure, so that I could help him.

He looked at me, then lowered his eyes, saying, “I’d thought about doing something, but, to be honest, I didn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I–I liked a man in the club, a lot. If he’d asked me, I might’ve agreed.” His lips curled upward as if he prided himself on what he had said.

“You’re sick!” I struck the table with my knuckles.

To my surprise, he said, “So? I’m a sick man. You think I don’t know that?”

I was bewildered. He went on, “Years ago I tried everything to cure myself. I took a lot of herbs and boluses, and even ate baked scorpions, lizards, and toads. Nothing helped me. Still I’m fond of men. I don’t know why I’m not interested in women. Whenever I’m with a woman my heart is as calm as a stone.”

Outraged by his confession, I asked, “Then why did you marry my Beina? To make fun of her, eh? To throw mud in my face?”

“How could I be that mean? Before we got married, I told her I didn’t like women and might not give her a baby.”

“She believed you?”

“Yes. She said she wouldn’t mind. She just wanted a husband, a home.”

“She’s an idiot!” I unfolded my hanky and blew my clogged nose into it, then asked, “Why did you choose her if you had no feelings for her at all?”

“What was the difference? For me she was similar to other women.”

“You’re a scoundrel!”

“If I didn’t marry her, who would? The marriage helped us both, covering me and saving face for her. Besides, we could have a good apartment — a home. You see, I tried living like a normal man. I’ve never been mean to Beina.”

“But the marriage is a fake! You lied to your mother too, didn’t you?”

“She wanted me to marry.”

The policeman signaled that our meeting was over. In spite of my anger, I told Baowen that I’d see what I could do, and that he’d better cooperate with the police and show a sincere attitude.

What should I do? I was sick of him, but he belonged to my family, at least in name, and I was obligated to help him.

On the way home I pedaled slowly, my mind heavy with thoughts. Gradually I realized that I might be able to do something to prevent him from going to jail. There were two steps I must take: first, I would maintain that he had done nothing in the club, so as to isolate him from the real criminals; second, I would present him as a sick man, so that he might receive medical treatment instead of a prison term. Once he became a criminal, he’d be marked forever as an enemy of society, no longer redeemable. Even his children would suffer. I ought to save him.

Fortunately both the Party secretary and the director of our factory were willing to accept Baowen as a sick man, particularly Secretary Zhu, who liked Baowen’s kung fu style and had once let him teach his youngest son how to use a three-section cudgel. Zhu suggested we make an effort to rescue Baowen from the police. In the men’s room inside our office building, he said to me, “Old Cheng, we must not let Baowen end up in prison.” I was grateful for his words.

All of a sudden homosexuality became a popular topic in the factory. A few old workers said that some actors of the Beijing Opera had slept together as lovers in the old days, because no women were allowed to perform in any troupe and the actors could associate only with other men. Secretary Zhu, who was well read, said that some emperors in the Han Dynasty had kept male lovers in addition to their large harems. Director Liu had heard that the last emperor, Puyi, had often ordered his eunuchs to suck his penis and caress his testicles. Someone even claimed that homosexuality was an upper-class thing, not something for ordinary people. All this talk sickened me. I felt ashamed of my so-called son-in-law. I wouldn’t join them in talking, and just listened, pretending I wasn’t bothered.

As I expected, rumors ran wild in the factory, especially in the foundry shop. Some people said Baowen was impotent. Some believed he was a hermaphrodite, otherwise his wife would’ve been pregnant long ago.

To console Beina, I went to see her one evening. She had a pleasant home, in which everything was in order. Two bookcases, filled with industrial manuals, biographies, novels, and medical books, stood against the whitewashed wall, on each side of the window. In one corner of the living room was a coat tree on which hung the red down parka Baowen had bought her before their wedding, and in another corner sat a floor lamp. At the opposite end of the room two pots of blooming flowers, one of cyclamens and the other of Bengal roses, were placed on a pair of low stools kept at an equal distance from each other and from the walls on both sides. Near the inner wall was a large sofa upholstered in orange imitation leather, and next to it, a yellow enamel spittoon. A black-and-white TV perched on an oak chest against the outer wall.

I was impressed, especially by the floor, inlaid with bricks and coated with bright red paint. Even my wife didn’t keep a home so neat. No doubt it was Baowen’s work, because Beina couldn’t be so tidy. Already the room showed the trace of her sloppy habits — in a corner were scattered an empty flour sack and a pile of soiled laundry. Sipping the tea she had poured me, I said, “Beina, I’m sorry about Baowen. I didn’t know he was so bad.”

“No, he’s a good man.” Her round eyes looked at me with a steady light.

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s been good to me.”

“But he can’t be a good husband, can he?”

“What do you mean?”

I said bluntly, “He didn’t go to bed with you very often, did he?”

“Oh, he can’t do that because he practices kung fu. He said if he slept with a woman, all his many years’ work would be gone. From the every beginning his master told him to avoid women.”

“So you don’t mind?” I was puzzled, saying to myself, What a stupid girl.

“Not really.”

“But you two must’ve shared the bed a couple of times, haven’t you?”

“No, we haven’t.”

“Really? Not even once?”

“No.” She blushed a little and looked away, twisting her earlobe with her fingertips.

My head was reeling. After eight months’ marriage she was still a virgin! And she didn’t mind! I lifted the cup and took a large gulp of the jasmine tea.

A lull settled in. We both turned to watch the evening news; my numb mind couldn’t take in what the anchorwoman was saying about a border skirmish between Vietnamese and Chinese troops.

A moment later I told Beina, “I’m sorry he has such a problem. If only we had known.”

“Don’t feel so bad, Uncle. In fact he’s better than a normal man.”

“How so?”

“Most men can’t stay away from pretty women, but Baowen just likes to have a few buddies. What’s wrong with that? It’s better this way, ’cause I don’t have to worry about those shameless bitches in our factory. He doesn’t bother to give them a look. He’ll never have a lifestyle problem.”

I almost laughed, wondering how I should explain to her that he could have a sexual relationship with a man and that he’d been detained precisely because of a lifestyle problem. On second thought, I realized it might be better for her to continue to think that way. She didn’t need more stress at the moment.

Then we talked about how to help Baowen. I told her to write a report emphasizing what a good, considerate husband he’d been. Of course she must not mention his celibacy in their marriage. Also, from now on, however vicious her fellow workers’ remarks were, she should merely ignore them and never talk back, as if she’d heard nothing.

That night when I told my wife about Beina’s silly notions, she smiled, saying, “Compared to most men, Baowen isn’t so bad. Beina’s not a fool.”

I begged Chief Miao and a higher-ranking officer to treat Baowen leniently and even gave each of them two bottles of brandy and a coupon for a Butterfly sewing machine. They seemed willing to help, but wouldn’t promise me anything. For days I was so anxious that my wife was afraid my ulcer might recur.

One morning the Public Security Bureau called, saying they had accepted our factory’s proposal and would have Baowen transferred to the mental hospital in a western suburb, provided our factory agreed to pay for his hospitalization. I accepted the offer readily, feeling relieved. Later, I learned that there wasn’t enough space in the city’s prison for twenty-seven gay men, who couldn’t be mixed with other inmates and had to be put in solitary cells. So only four of them were jailed; the rest were either hospitalized (if their work units agreed to pay their medical expenses) or sent to some labor farms to be reformed. The two Party members among them didn’t go to jail, though they were expelled from the Party, a very severe punishment that ended their political lives.

The moment I put down the phone, I hurried to the assembly shop and found Beina. She broke into tears at the good news. She ran back home and filled a duffel bag with Baowen’s clothes. We met at my office, then together set out for the Public Security Bureau. I pedaled my bicycle and she sat behind me, embracing the duffel as if it were a baby. With a strong tailwind, the cycling was easy and fast, so we arrived before Baowen left for the hospital. He was waiting for a van in front of the police station, accompanied by two policemen.

The bruises on his face had healed, and he looked handsome again. He smiled at us and said rather secretively, “I want to ask you a favor.” He rolled his eyes as the dark-green van rounded the street corner, coming toward us.

“What?” I said.

“Don’t let my mother know the truth. She’s too old to take it. Don’t tell her, please!”

“What should we say to her, then?” I asked.

“Just say I have a temporary mental disorder.”

Beina couldn’t hold back her tears anymore, saying loudly, “Don’t worry. We won’t let her know. Take care of yourself and come back soon.” She handed him the duffel, which he accepted without a word.

I nodded to assure him that I wouldn’t reveal the truth. He smiled at her, then at me. For some reason his face turned rather sweet — charming and enticing, as though it were a mysterious female face. I blinked my eyes and wondered if he was really a man. It flashed through my mind that if he were a woman, he would’ve been quite a beauty — tall, slim, muscular, and slightly languid.

My thoughts were cut short by a metallic screech as the van stopped in front of us. Baowen climbed into it; so did the policemen. I walked around the van and shook his hand, saying that I’d visit him the next week, and that meanwhile, if he needed anything, just to give me a ring.

We waved goodbye as the van drew away, its tire chains clattering and flinging up bits of snow. After a blasting toot, it turned left and disappeared from the icy street. I got on my bicycle as a gust of wind blew up and almost threw me down. Beina followed me for about twenty yards, then leaped on the carrier, and together we headed home. She was so heavy. Thank heaven, I was riding a Great Golden Deer, one of the sturdiest makes.

During the following week I heard from Baowen once. He said on the phone that he felt better now and less agitated. Indeed his voice sounded calm and smooth. He asked me to bring him a few books when I came, specifically his Dictionary of Universal Knowledge, which was a hefty, rare book translated from the Russian in the late fifties. I had no idea how he had come by it.

I went to see him on Thursday morning. The hospital was on a mountain, six miles southwest of Muji City. As I was cycling on the asphalt road, a few tall smokestacks fumed lazily beyond the larch woods in the west. To my right, the power lines along the roadside curved, heavy with fluffy snow, which would drop in little chunks whenever the wind blew across them. Now and then I overtook a horse cart loaded with earless sheaves of wheat, followed by one or two foals. After I pedaled across a stone bridge and turned in to the mouth of a valley, a group of brick buildings emerged on a gentle slope, connected to one another by straight cement paths. Farther up the hill, past the buildings, there was a cow pen, in which about two dozen milk cows were grazing on dry grass while a few others huddled together to keep warm.

It was so peaceful here that if you hadn’t known this was a mental hospital, you might have imagined it was a sanatorium for ranking officials. Entering Building 9, I was stopped by a guard, who then took me to Baowen’s room on the ground floor. It happened that the doctor on duty, a tall fortyish man with tapering fingers, was making the morning rounds and examining Baowen. He shook hands with me and said that my son-in-law was doing fine. His surname was Mai; his whiskered face looked very intelligent. When he turned to give a male nurse instructions about Baowen’s treatment, I noticed an enormous wart in his ear, almost blocking the earhole like a hearing aid. In a way he looked like a foreigner. I wondered if he had some Mongolian or Tibetan blood.

“We give him the electric bath,” Dr. Mai said to me a moment later.

“What?” I asked, wincing.

“We treat him with the electric bath.”

I turned to Baowen. “How is it?”

“It’s good, really soothing.” He smiled, but there was a churlish look in his eyes, and his mouth tightened.

The nurse was ready to take him for the treatment. Never having heard of such a bath, I asked Dr. Mai, “Can I see how it works?”

“All right, you may go with them.”

Together we climbed the stairs to the second floor. There was another reason for me to join them. I wanted to find out whether Baowen was a normal man. The rumors in our factory had gotten on my nerves, particularly the one that said he had no penis — that was why he had always avoided bathing in the workers’ bathhouse.

After taking off our shoes and putting on plastic slippers, we entered a small room that had pea-green walls and a parquet floor. At its center lay a porcelain bathtub, a ghastly thing, like an instrument of torture. Affixed along the interior wall of the tub were rectangles of black, perforated metal. Three thick rubber cords connected them to a tall machine standing by the wall. A control board full of buttons, gauges, and switches was mounted atop the machine. The young nurse, burly and square-faced, turned on the faucet; steaming water began to tumble into the tub. Then he went over to operate the machine. He seemed good-natured; his name was Long Fuhai. He said he came from the countryside, apparently of peasant stock, and had graduated from Jilin Nursing School.

Baowen smiled at me while unbuttoning his zebra-striped hospital robe. He looked fine now — all the bruises had disappeared from his face, which had become pinkish and smooth. I was frightened by the tub, however. It seemed more suitable for electrocuting a criminal. No matter how sick I might be, I would never lie in it with my back resting against that metal groove. What if there were a problem with the wiring?

“Does it hurt?” I asked Baowen.

“No.”

He went behind a khaki screen in a corner and began taking off his clothes. When the water half filled the tub, the nurse took a small bag of white powder out of a drawer, cut it open with scissors, and poured the stuff into the water. It must be salt. He tucked up his shirt sleeves and bent double to agitate the solution with both hands, which were large and sinewy.

To my dismay, Baowen came out in a clean pair of shorts. Without hesitation he got into the tub and lay down, just as one would enter a lukewarm bathing pool. I was amazed. “Have you given him electricity yet?” I asked Nurse Long.

“Yes, some. I’ll increase it little by little.” He turned to the machine and adjusted a few buttons.

“You know,” he said to me, “your son-in-law is a very good patient, always cooperative.”

“He should be.”

“That’s why we give him the bath. Other patients get electric cuffs around their limbs or electric rods on their bodies. Some of them scream like animals every time. We have to tie them up.”

“When will he be cured?”

“I’m not sure.”

Baowen was noiseless in the electrified water, with his eyes shut and his head resting on a black rubber pad at the end of the tub. He looked fine, rather relaxed.

I drew up a chair and sat down. Baowen seemed reluctant to talk, preferring to concentrate on the treatment, so I remained silent, observing him. His body was wiry, his legs hairless, and the front of his shorts bulged quite a bit. He looked all right physically. Once in a while he breathed a feeble sigh.

As the nurse increased the electric current, Baowen began to squirm in the tub as if smarting from something. “Are you all right?” I asked but dared not touch him.

“Yeah.”

He kept his eyes shut. Glistening beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. He looked pale, his lips curling now and again as though he were thirsty.

Then the nurse gave him more electricity. Baowen began writhing and moaning a little. Obviously he was suffering. This bath couldn’t be so soothing as he’d claimed. With a white towel Nurse Long wiped the sweat off Baowen’s face and whispered, “I’ll turn it down in a few minutes.”

“No, give me more!” Baowen said resolutely without opening his eyes, his face twisted.

I felt as though he were ashamed of himself. Perhaps my presence made this section of the treatment more uncomfortable for him. His hands gripped the rim of the tub, his arched wrists trembling. For a good three minutes nobody said a word; the room was so quiet that its walls seemed to be ringing.

As the nurse gradually reduced the electricity, Baowen calmed down. His toes stopped wiggling.

Not wanting to bother him further with my presence, I went out to look for Doctor Mai, to thank him and find out when Baowen would be cured. The doctor was not in his office, so I walked out of the building for a breath of air. The sun was high and the snow blazingly white. Once outside, I had to close my eyes for a minute to adjust them. I then sat down on a bench and lit a cigarette. A young woman in an ermine hat and army mittens passed by, holding an empty milk pail and humming the song “Comrade, Please Have a Cup of Tea.” She looked handsome, and her crisp voice pleased me. I gazed at the pair of thick braids behind her, which swayed a little in the wind.

My heart was full of pity for Baowen. He was such a fine young man that he ought to be able to love a woman, have a family, and enjoy a normal life.

Twenty minutes later I rejoined him in his room. He looked tired, still shivering a little. He told me that as the electric currents increased, his skin had begun prickling as though stung by hundreds of mosquitoes. That was why he couldn’t stay in the tub for longer than half an hour.

I felt for him and said, “I’ll tell our leaders how sincere your attitude is and how cooperative you are.”

“Oh, fine.” He tilted his damp head. “Thanks for bringing the books.”

“Do you need something else?”

“No.” He sounded sad.

“Baowen, I hope you can come home before the New Year. Beina needs you.”

“I know. I don’t want to be locked up here forever.”

I told him that Beina had written to his mother, saying he’d been away on a business trip. Then the bell for lunch rang in the building, and outside the loudspeaker began broadcasting the fiery music of “March of the Volunteers.” Nurse Long walked in with a pair of chopsticks and a plate containing two corn buns. He said cheerily to Baowen, “I’ll bring you the dish in a minute. We have tofu stewed with sauerkraut today, also bean sprout soup.”

I stood up and took my leave.

When I reported Baowen’s condition to the factory leaders, they seemed impressed. The term “electric bath” must have given their imagination free rein. Secretary Zhu kept shaking his head and said, “I’m sorry Baowen has to go through such a thing.”

I didn’t explain that the electric bath was a treatment less severe than the other kinds, nor did I describe what the bath was like. I just said, “They steep him in electrified water every day.” Let the terror seize their brains, I thought, so that they might be more sympathetic toward Baowen when he is discharged from the hospital.

It was mid-December, and Baowen had been in the hospital for a month already. For days Beina went on saying that she wanted to see how her husband was doing; she was eager to bring him home before the New Year. Among her fellow workers rumors persisted. One said the electric bath had blistered Baowen; another claimed that his genitals had been shriveled up by the treatment; another added that he had become a vegetarian, nauseated at the mere sight of meat. The young woman who had once declared she’d leave her door open for him had just married and proudly told everybody she was pregnant. People began to be kind and considerate to Beina, treating her like an abused wife. The leaders of the assembly shop assigned her only the daytime shift. I was pleased that Finance still paid Baowen his wages as though he were on sick leave. Perhaps they did this because they didn’t want to upset me.

On Saturday, Beina and I went to the mental hospital. She couldn’t pedal, and it was too far for me to carry her on my bicycle, so we took the bus. She had been there by herself two weeks ago to deliver some socks and a pair of woolen pajamas she’d knitted for Baowen.

We arrived at the hospital early in the afternoon. Baowen looked healthy and in good spirits. It seemed the bath had helped him. He was happy to see Beina and even cuddled her in my presence. He gave her two toffees; knowing I disliked candies, he didn’t offer any to me. He poured a large mug of malted milk for both of us, since there was only one mug in the room. I didn’t touch the milk, unsure whether homosexuality was communicable. I was glad to see that he treated his wife well. He took a genuine interest in what she said about their comrades in our factory, and now and then laughed heartily. What a wonderful husband he could have been if he were not sick.

Having sat with the couple for a few minutes, I left so that they could be alone. I went to the nurses’ office upstairs and found Long Fuhai writing at a desk. The door was open, and I knocked on its frame. Startled, he closed his brown notebook and stood up.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said.

“No, Uncle, only because I didn’t expect anyone to come up here.”

I took a carton of Peony cigarettes out of my bag and put it on the desk, saying, “I won’t take too much of your time, young man. Please keep this as a token of my regards.” I didn’t mean to bribe him; I was sincerely grateful to him for treating Baowen well.

“Oh, don’t give me this, please.”

“You don’t smoke?”

“I do. Tell you what, give it to Dr. Mai. He’ll help Baowen more.”

I was puzzled. Why didn’t he want these top-quality cigarettes if he smoked? Seeing that I was confused, he went on, “I’ll be nice to Baowen without any gift from you. He’s a good man. It’s the doctor’s wheels that you should grease.”

“I have another carton for him.”

“One carton’s nothing here. You should give him at least two.”

I was moved by his thoughtfulness, thanked him, and said goodbye.

Dr. Mai happened to be in his office. When I walked in, he was reading the current issue of Women’s Life, whose back cover carried a large photo of Madame Mao on trial — she wore black and stood, handcuffed, between two young policewomen. Dr. Mai put the magazine aside and asked me to sit down. In the room, tall shelves loaded with books and files lined the walls. A smell of rotten fruit hung in there. He seemed pleased to see me.

After we exchanged a few words, I took out both cartons of cigarettes and handed them to him. “This is just a small token of my gratitude, for the New Year,” I said.

He took the cigarettes and put them away under his desk. “Thanks a lot,” he whispered.

“Dr. Mai, do you think Baowen will be cured before the holiday?” I asked.

“What did you say? Cured?” He looked surprised.

“Yes.”

He shook his head slowly, then turned to check that the door was shut. It was. He motioned me to move closer. I pulled the chair forward a little and rested my forearms on the edge of his Bakelite desktop.

“To be honest, there’s no cure,” he said.

“What?”

“Homosexuality isn’t an illness, so how can it have a cure? Don’t tell anyone I said this.”

“Then why torture Baowen like that?”

“The police sent him here and we couldn’t refuse. Besides, we ought to make him feel better and hopeful.”

“So it isn’t a disease?”

“Unfortunately, no. Let me say this again: there’s no cure for your son-in-law, Old Cheng. It’s not a disease. It’s just a sexual preference; it may be congenital, like being left-handed. Got it?”

“Then why give him the electric bath?” Still I wasn’t convinced.

“Electrotherapy is prescribed by the book — a standard treatment required by the Department of Public Health. I have no choice but to follow the regulations. That’s why I didn’t give him any of those harsher treatments. The bath is very mild by comparison. You see, I’ve done everything in my power to help him. Let me tell you another fact: according to the statistics, so far electrotherapy has cured only one out of a thousand homosexuals. I bet cod liver oil, or chocolate, or fried pork, anything, could produce a better result. All right, enough of this. I’ve said too much.”

At last his words sank in. For a good while I sat there motionless with a numb mind. A flock of sparrows were flitting about in the naked branches outside the window, chasing the one that held a tiny ear of millet in its bill. Another of them dragged a yellow string tied around its leg, unable to fly as nimbly as the others. I rose to my feet and thanked the doctor for his candid words. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill and said, “I’ll take special care of your son-in-law. Don’t worry.”

I rejoined Beina downstairs. Baowen looked quite cheerful, and it seemed they’d had a good time. He said to me, “If I can’t come home soon, don’t push too hard to get me out. They won’t keep me here forever.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

In my heart I was exasperated, because if Dr. Mai’s words were true, there’d be little I could do for Baowen. If homosexuality wasn’t a disease, why had he felt sick and tried to have himself cured? Had he been shamming? It was unlikely.

Beina had been busy cleaning their home since her last visit to the hospital. She bought two young drakes and planned to make drunk duck, the dish she said Baowen liked best. My heart was heavy. On the one hand, I’d have loved to have him back for the holiday; on the other hand, I was unsure what would happen if his condition hadn’t improved. I dared not reveal my thoughts to anybody, not even to my wife, who had a big mouth. Because of her, the whole factory knew that Beina was still a virgin, and some people called her Virgin Bride.

For days I pondered what to do. I was confused. Everybody said that homosexuality was a disease except for Dr. Mai, whose opinion I dared not mention to others. The factory leaders would be mad at me if they knew there was no cure for homosexuality. We had already spent over three thousand yuan on Baowen. I kept questioning in my mind, If homosexuality is a natural thing, then why are there men and women? Why can’t two men get married and make a baby? Why didn’t nature give men another hole? I was beset by doubts. If only I could have seen a trustworthy doctor for a second opinion. If only I had a knowledgeable, honest friend to talk with.

I hadn’t yet made up my mind about what to do when, five days before the holiday, Chief Miao called from the Public Security Bureau. He informed me that Baowen had repeated his crime, so the police had taken him out of the hospital and sent him to the prison in Tangyuan County. “This time he did it,” said the chief.

“Impossible!” I cried.

“We have evidence and witnesses. He doesn’t deny it himself.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know how to continue.

“He has to be incarcerated now.”

“Are you sure he’s not a hermaphrodite?” I mentioned that as a last resort.

Miao chuckled drily. “No, he’s not. We had him checked. Physically he’s a man, healthy and normal. Obviously it’s a mental, moral disease, like an addiction to opium.”

Putting down the phone, I felt dizzy, cursing Baowen for having totally ruined himself. What had happened was that he and Long Fuhai had developed a relationship secretly. The nurse often gave him a double amount of meat or fish at dinner. Baowen, in return, unraveled his woolen pajamas and knitted Long a pullover with the wool. One evening when they were lying in each other’s arms in the nurses’ office, an old cleaner passed by in the corridor and coughed. Long Fuhai was terrified, convinced that the man saw what they had been doing. For days, however hard Baowen tried to talk him out of his conviction, Long wouldn’t change his mind, blaming Baowen for having misled him. He said that the old cleaner often smiled at him meaningfully and was sure to turn them in. Finally Long Fuhai went to the hospital leaders and confessed everything. So unlike Baowen, who got three and a half years in jail, Nurse Long was merely put on probation; if he worked harder and criticized himself well, he might keep his current job.

That evening I went to tell Beina about the new development. As I spoke, she sobbed continually. Although she’d been cleaning the apartment for several days, her home was a shambles, most of the flowers half dead, and dishes and pots piled in the sink. Mopping her face with a pink towel, she asked me, “What should I tell my mother-in-law?”

“Tell her the truth.”

She made no response. I said again, “You should consider a divorce.”

“No!” Her sobbing turned into wailing. “He — he’s my husband and I’m his wife. If I die my soul belongs to him. We’ve sworn never to leave each other. Let others say whatever they want, I know he’s a good man.”

“Then why did he go to bed with Long Fuhai?”

“He just wanted to have a good time. That was all. It’s nothing like adultery or bigamy, is it?”

“But it’s a crime that got him put in jail,” I said. Although in my heart I admitted that Baowen in every way was a good fellow except for his fondness for men, I had to be adamant about my position. I was in charge of security for our factory; if I had a criminal son-in-law, who would listen to me? Wouldn’t I be removed from my office soon? If I lost my job, who would protect Beina? Sooner or later she would be laid off, since a criminal’s wife was not supposed to have the same employment opportunities as others. Beina remained silent; I asked again, “What are you going to do?”

“Wait for him.”

I took a few spiced pumpkin seeds from a bowl, stood up, and went over to the window. Under the sill the radiator was hissing softly with a tiny steam leak. Outside, in the distance, firecrackers, one after another, scattered clusters of sparks in the indigo dusk. I turned around and said, “He’s not worth waiting for. You must divorce him.”

“No, I won’t,” she moaned.

“Well, it’s impossible for me to have a criminal as my son-in-law. I’ve been humiliated enough. If you want to wait for him, don’t come to see me again.” I put the pumpkin seeds back into the bowl, picked up my fur hat, and dragged myself out the door.