The Crazed

23

Yuman Tan came to see Mr. Yang the next day. He was a bony man with a shock of hair falling over his forehead. His sallow but intelligent face, slightly pitted, had large, whitish eyes that were often bleary as though he was under-slept. Today he wore leather bluchers, a beige shirt, and buff pants held by a belt with a shiny brass buckle. In such a light-colored outfit he looked less skinny, as if he had gained a coating of flesh.

Although to me Weiya deserved a better man than him, from his standpoint she might not be the best choice. There were a good number of unmarried women among the faculty, and I was told that two of them were actively after him. What’s more, he often received letters from female fans of his essays, some of whom even sent him their photos. But in my opinion, his writing tended to be verbose and pretentious. He indulged too much in self-display and overused ah’s and oh’s as if they were punctuation marks; he was so fond of the adverb “very” that it would appear four or five times on a single page; besides, he tried too hard to titillate his readers.

Mr. Yang’s collapse had presented a rare opportunity to Yuman Tan, who in a way was Professor Song’s right-hand man. By now he was fully in charge of the journal Studies in Classical Literature, though Mr. Yang in name remained its editor in chief. After I let him in, I wondered why he had come. Despite respecting Mr. Yang in appearance, he had never been close to him. He sat down, opened his leatherette briefcase, and said, with his eyes shifting between my teacher and me, “Professor Yang, I’m here to see how you’re doing. Do you feel better?”

“No, I’m getting worse,” Mr. Yang snorted without moving his head. His right hand was fingering the elastic waist of his new pajamas.

“Professor Yang, may I report to you on the editorial plan for the next issue of the journal?”

“What journal?”

“The one you’ve been editing.”

“That’s a pamphlet.”

“Okay, whatever you call it. So far we have picked eight papers for the next issue. Two of them are on the regulated verse, one on Ming fiction, one on ancient folk songs, two on—”

“Why are you talking to me about this propaganda stuff? I’m not a clerk anymore.”

Yuman Tan looked confused, then turned to me searchingly. I forced a smile while my forefinger was cranking my temple. “Well,” he answered Mr. Yang, “because you’re the editor in chief, I’m just your assistant, and you have the final say.”

“I quit long ago so that I can take a trip.”

“A trip? Where to?” Yuman Tan closed the briefcase and put it on his lap.

“To Canada.”

“Why Canada? Isn’t it very cold there?” He sucked his breath as if feeling a sensitive tooth.

“No. Every room is heated in Vancouver, warm inside.”

“Doesn’t it snow a lot in winter?”

“Snow can clean the air and purify your spirit.”

“I don’t get it, Professor Yang. Don’t you get laryngitis when it’s cold?”

“This country is a pickle vat and I don’t want to be marinated in this filth anymore. Like the lotus flower, I came out of the mud but will not be soiled by it.”

That made me panic, because Yuman Tan might report Mr. Yang’s twaddle to the leaders. He said unctuously, “You can’t desert us like this, Professor Yang. We need your guidance and leadership. Without you we’d be totally lost.”

“You should leave this place too. In such a pickle vat even a stone can be marinated and lose its original color and begin to stink. You should find a peaceful place that has clean water and fresh air, good for the health of your soul.”

Yuman Tan frowned, but immediately his face softened. He turned to me and said under his breath, “Maybe I shouldn’t bother him with this trifle for the time being.”

I replied, “Yes. He can’t think clearly now.”

“Don’t badmouth me!” Mr. Yang snapped.

“All right,” said Yuman Tan, “Professor Yang, you’re very tired today. We’ll talk about the editorial stuff another time. Take good care of yourself.” He stood up, stepped forward, and patted the back of Mr. Yang’s hand. Then he turned to me and said, “I’d better get going.”

Mr. Yang said crossly, apropos of nothing, “I shall forgive none of you. You all hate me, but I don’t care. I shall leave this mousetrap soon, for good.”

Shocked, Yuman Tan furrowed his forehead, but he didn’t say a word. I followed him out of the room. In the corridor I begged him, “Please don’t take Mr. Yang at his word. He’s beside himself today. You know he loves our country.”

“No doubt about it. Don’t worry.” He put on a smile that showed some smugness.

As he headed toward the stairwell, I wondered why he looked so happy. Was it because my teacher’s wretched condition might assure him that the journal would be in his hands permanently? There seemed more to it than that. What else motivated him to come here? I stood at the broad window and thought about the visit of this crafty man, who appeared younger than his age and quite spirited today.

I craned my neck to look out of the building. Yuman Tan was coming out the front door. Hurriedly descending the concrete steps, he walked away with a bouncing gait. He even skipped briskly as if jumping an invisible rope. A few swallows were darting back and forth in front of him, making tinny squeaks while catching gnats. He waved at the birds, as if inviting them to land on his shoulders. He was more than happy, he was elated. Why?

Then it dawned on me that he had come mainly to find out whether Mr. Yang could recover from the stroke. Now obviously to him my teacher was beyond convalescence. This must be why the little upstart was so ecstatic: Mr. Yang’s permanent absence from the department would create a new quota for a professorship, to which Yuman Tan was very likely to be promoted, since he was on good terms with both the Party secretary and the chairman and had published a good deal. How mysterious life was! The two men used to have nothing to do with each other, but Mr. Yang’s misfortune had produced windfalls for Yuman Tan, who was now editing his journal, busy carrying off his mistress, and might soon rise to the rank of associate professor. Did he know about the affair between Weiya and Mr. Yang? Probably not. It crossed my mind that perhaps Weiya had decided to go with him because she was afraid that the secret might come to light someday, which would make her completely unmarriageable. She had better rush to get a man. Maybe Secretary Peng already knew about the affair; that must be the truth Weiya had withheld from me when she said Ying Peng could hurt her badly.

Then the thought occurred to me that Vice Principal Huang might have known about the affair as well. His words to Mr. Yang—“Let her decide what to do herself, all right?”— now began to make sense. He must have been referring to Weiya. No wonder she feared that she might get kicked out of the university.

Mr. Yang had been reciting poetry while I was away. When I came back, he was chanting an ancient lyric:

Beyond the curtain the rain drizzles.

Spring is fading.

A satin quilt cannot keep out

The cold of a tattered night.

In dream I have forgotten I’m a guest,

Still indulging in merriment.

Do not lean upon the balustrade alone.

Oh, the boundless rivers and mountains,

How easy it was to leave them,

How hard it is to see them again!

Spring is gone with fallen

Flowers in flowing streams—

A difference like heaven and earth.

“What a sad poem, heartbreakingly sad,” he muttered. “Like the spring, I must be leaving too.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Canada.”

“What will you do there?”

“I shall write a book on Ezra Pound. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes, he translated some of Li Po’s poems.”

“Correct. He also translated Book of Songs in its entirety with little knowledge of Chinese. My friend at UC-Berkeley told me that there were hundreds of mistakes in the translation, so I’m going to write a book entitled Ezra Pound: A Multitude of Fallacies.”

He was ludicrous and again possessed by the academic hysteria that often prompted scholars to trash one another’s books and papers. I asked him, “Why not go to the United States? You may find more material for such a book there.”

“Canada is a larger country, and my soul needs more space.” I kept quiet and wondered why he talked so much about his soul and Canada lately. He used to insist that he was a dialectical materialist who didn’t believe in the soul. Had he changed into an idealist? Or had he become religious at heart? Or had his physical deterioration intensified his awareness of the spiritual life? In any case, he appeared to be struggling to take possession of his soul, yearning for some free, unsullied space, which in his case, absurd as it seems, might be symbolized by Canada.