The Crazed

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.