The Crazed

30

For most of the next day I lay in bed thinking about Mr. Yang’s last moment and about how to talk to Meimei when she got back. It rained the whole morning, frogs croaking like crazy outside. In the afternoon the sun came out, but it was so muggy that the bamboo mat underneath me remained sticky. I hated this enervating climate. Unlike my hometown in the Northeast, there was seldom a brisk breeze here in spring or summer.

Toward dinnertime, when the loudspeaker began to play the song “Both Hands Water Happy Flowers,” my stomach at last rumbled, reminding me that I had not eaten lunch. I wouldn’t go to the dining hall because Little Owl might pick on me again; instead, I went to Deli Bite, a noodle joint nearby that had opened recently. It stood next to a grand Gothic church, built by German missionaries in the nineteenth century, which had served as a depot for cotton yarn for over three decades. A year ago the church had been renovated and reopened; now hundreds of people went to it on Sunday mornings. As I walked toward the church, I noticed that its windows, formerly glassless, were all glazed now, some of the panes flashing in the setting sun. The peaked towers looked awesome, though the belfry was still empty.

Through the window of Deli Bite I saw two large wicker baskets sitting on the glass countertop, both covered with white quilts. They must have contained twisted rolls and wheaten cakes stuffed with pork and chives. I’d heard that noodles here were especially good, so I bought a radish soup and a plate of noodles fried with slivers of lean pork and mung bean sprouts. At an empty table in a corner I sat down, eating unhurriedly.

The owner of this place was a middle-aged woman, who was so stout that she had no neck and her bare arms resembled two long loaves of bread. Her small eyes were almost buried in their hanging lids. She was fiddling with the beads on an abacus; once in a while she slapped at a fly with a leather swatter. Although she looked cranky, I liked this place. Different from state-owned restaurants, it was relatively clean and quiet here. Besides, it offered cheaper food.

As I was eating, a squat man sauntered in. He must have been a peasant, in his mid-forties, having a mud-colored face, piggy eyes, a severe underbite, and cupped ears. He was stripped to the waist and wearing only black slacks, secured above his hips with a band made of the same cotton cloth as that of his trousers. His triangular breasts jiggled a little as he walked. His body reminded me of a Buddha’s, though his pudgy face showed no benevolence.

“A bowl of noodles with fried soya paste,” he drawled as if speaking through his nose, and handed a banknote to the woman behind the counter.

In a little while a large bowl of noodles with a pair of connected chopsticks standing in its middle was put before him. The woman stretched out her hand to deliver the change. The man counted the money, then his sparse eyebrows knotted together. “Why did you charge me five fen more?” He spoke loudly for everybody to hear. Besides me there was only one other customer eating in this place.

“Don’t you have eyes?” the woman asked sharply.

“Why did you shortchange me?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Give my five fen back, now!” He threw up his hands.

“Can’t you see the pair of chopsticks on top of the noodles? That costs five fen. You’re not blind, are you?”

“I don’t want them chopsticks. You gave me that yourself.” He pointed his index finger at the woman while his other hand took a green plastic spoon out of his cloth waistband. He waved it and said, “I have my spoon. Who wants your shit-digging sticks?”

“Watch your mouth!” she yelled. “I have no change for you. Clear out of here, will you?”

“Uh-uh, not till you give my money back.”

“Okay, you stay here. I’ll give you something for change. I’ve never met a customer cheaper than you.”

“You’re cheap, you gyp people.”

Arms akimbo, he stood by the counter waiting patiently while the soybean paste atop the noodles was sending up steam. I was amazed that they were fighting over such a trifle, just five fen, which wasn’t worth the anger they had worked up. I was curious to see how this squabble would end.

Then out of the kitchen came a tall young man in jeans, the cuffs of which were tucked in knee-high rubber boots. He looked savage, with sloping eyes and an athletic build; a knife scar curved at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the bum that wants money?” he shouted, and went straight to the waiting customer, who was too petrified to make a peep. The man seized the peasant’s hair with his left hand; with his right fist he started punching him in the face. “This is your change! Take this!” he kept saying through his teeth.

The peasant was groaning and stamping his foot. “Ow! Ow!” he yelled, trying in vain to cover his face with both hands. He struggled desperately but couldn’t break loose from the thug, who was striking him harder and harder.

This was too much, worse than robbery. The other diner, an old lecturer in sociology, hurriedly finished his meal and made for the door. I stood up and went across to the brute. “Cool it! That’s enough,” I said firmly, glaring at him. He stopped and inadvertently let go of the peasant. “You mustn’t beat your customer up like this,” I added.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he exploded. “This is none of your business.”

“It is my business to stop you from committing a crime, ” I insisted.

To my surprise, he turned and walked away toward the kitchen. He shouted at me over his shoulder, “You wait for me there! Damn you, you act like a ghost that’s never afraid of death. I’m going to give you a test.”

The peasant was still gasping with tears. Dark bruises appeared on his face, and his eyes had become puffy, almost sealed. He bent forward, loosened his waistband, and retied it. On the floor were his broken spoon and drops of blood from his nose. As soon as I handed him a piece of paper, the young thug rushed over with a cleaver in his hand. At the sight of the knife the peasant cringed, then dropped to his knees, begging, “Master, please spare my worthless life! I won’t come to make trouble again.” He clasped his hands before his chest and then put them down on the floor. Shamelessly he began to kowtow, knocking the concrete floor as if his head were a block of wood. I took a deep breath and tried to refrain from trembling.

Initially the brute had come for me, but the racket the peasant made invited him to deal with him first. He said to him with a wicked smirk, “Come again whenever you like. You’re always welcome.” He raised the cleaver over the man’s head.

“No, Master! I won’t cross your doorstep again. Please spare me. Oh help, help!”

The cleaver drew a circle in the air and came down onto the peasant’s head, but as it was falling it twisted so that its side struck his crown with a crack. “Ouch!” He collapsed to the floor and instantly began crawling toward the door. The thug kicked him in the buttocks again and again until the squealing man rolled out into the street.

Now the brute came at me. He placed the cleaver on my shoulder, pulling and pushing it as if sawing my neck. The blade sent a chill down my body, but it wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood. My right leg was shaking.

“See how stiff the shaft of your neck is?” He cracked a smile, half closing his lozenge eyes. His lips protruded, spit flying about as he spoke.

I couldn’t say a word. As though my chest were jammed with sand, I could hardly breathe.

“You think you’re mighty smart, huh?” he hissed. “Now feel this. I didn’t expect you were that wild a moment ago. How do you like this now, boy? Cold, eh? Why are you so tame?” His grin distorted his pimply face. Out of his nostrils came hot, alcoholic fumes, which kept brushing my forehead, but I wasn’t sure if he was drunk.

I swallowed to catch my breath and remained unbudging, though the cleaver still rested on my shoulder. He said, “If I like, I can hack your noggin off and it’ll drop to the floor like a rotten pumpkin.”

How I wished I had taken off! Cold sweat was running down my back, my armpits were clammy, and my heart was lurching.

The thug snarled, “You think you’re mighty gutsy to help that worm. Fact is, you’re just a jackass. Where’s he now? He doesn’t care a hoot about how you’ll end here, does he? He just crawled out the door to save his own ass. He’s a dumb animal, a yellow-faced ape, and shouldn’t be treated like a man.” His words sent a sharp pang to my heart. “Knees!” he cried, pressing my shoulder with the side of the cleaver.

Heedless of his order, I said, “I’m going to have you arrested.”

“What?” He tipped his head back and went off into loud laughter. Unwittingly withdrawing the cleaver, he kept on, “You, such a little book bag, have me nabbed? Boy, you never fail to amaze me.”

“I’ll do it soon.”

“All right, I’m going to let your noggin stay on your neck for a while so I’ll see how you can nab me. Now, get out of here. Your grandpa’s tired of handling you today — I don’t want to soil my hands to beat the shit out of you. Do you hear me? Get out of my face!” He still held the knife before his chest. There was dried pig’s blood on the blade.

I braced myself to say to both him and the fat owner of this place, “I’m going to work in the Policy Office at the Provincial Administration. The first thing I shall do is have your business closed.”

He turned to look at the woman, who was visibly stunned by my words. Flaring his nostrils, he let down the cleaver, which hung along his thigh lifelessly. Beads of sweat emerged on his nose and cheeks. I left without another word.

Scarcely had I stepped out the door when the woman caught up with me and pleaded, almost in tears, “Please don’t have my business shut down. Have mercy, comrade! My brother’s just an asshole. He didn’t know who he was dealing with. He has eyes but they’re only rotten meatballs in their sockets, so he can’t see a high official in front of him. I’ll ask him to apologize to you. This place’s all we have. Please don’t wreck us. You can eat here for free. .”

I walked away without giving her a look, though she followed at my elbow for about fifty yards. I was shivering with fear and excitement; an itchy laugh was mounting to my throat, but I suppressed it. A long truck passed by carrying four concrete electrical poles, moaning fitfully and throwing up a cloud of dust. I was headed for the campus, amazed by the effect I had produced just by mentioning my future job. On the other hand, I was embittered, as the thug’s remark about the peasant rankled me more now. How right he was about him! I had intended to rescue that man, but he wouldn’t have had second thoughts about letting me be butchered alone. I felt betrayed, realizing he was one of those people I meant to help.