The Crazed

35

Although I’d slept twelve hours since I came back from Beijing, I hadn’t recovered from the trip yet. For a whole day I didn’t go out except at noon, when I went to fetch some hot water and buy a few wheaten cakes at a food stand. When I walked, my legs still trembled a little, so I stayed in bed most of the time. Huran asked me again and again about the massacre in the capital. He had heard of it from the Voice of America, but he didn’t seem surprised, saying he had expected such an outcome. Unlike him, most of the students in the dormitory houses were outraged, and a few brave ones even put on black armbands. Still in shock, I couldn’t talk to Huran at length. I just repeated, “They killed lots of people, lots.”

Mantao wasn’t back yet, and I worried. Toward evening I went out to mail a letter to my family, telling them what I had seen in Beijing. On my way back I ran into an undergraduate who had been in Mantao’s group and had returned that morning. He said they hadn’t reached Tiananmen Square either. I asked him where Mantao was.

“You don’t know?” His dreamy eyes gleamed.

“Know what?”

“He was shot in the face when he pitched a Molotov cocktail at a personnel carrier.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’ve no idea. I heard he died on the way to the hospital.”

My chest and throat contracted with pain, but I managed to ask, “How about the others in your group?”

“They’re all right, I guess. Some of them haven’t returned yet. Those who’re back can’t stop crying and cursing in the dorms. Old Ghost has a sprained arm.”

Old Ghost was a skeletal fellow, an economics major. I walked away. Tears were flowing down my face. I wished I were an army commander, though I knew that even if I were, I couldn’t have done a thing to avenge the dead, because it was the Party that controlled the army. In the indigo sky a skein of geese appeared, veering north while squawking gutturally. The sight of the birds reminded me of a squadron of superbombers. “Avenge me. . Kill them all!” Mr. Yang’s last words suddenly reverberated in my mind. I shook my head forcefully to get rid of the haunting sounds.

Back in the dormitory, I dozed away in bed again. Whenever awake, I would listen to my shortwave radio, and tears welled up in my eyes from time to time. On the BBC a reporter said plaintively that an estimated five thousand people had been killed, that many students were crushed by the tanks and armored personnel carriers, that a civil war might break out anytime since more field armies were heading for Beijing, that forty million dollars had just been transferred to a Swiss bank by someone connected with the top national leaders, and that an airliner was reserved for them in case they needed to flee China. However, another reporter, a woman from Hong Kong, told a different story. She said composedly that at most about a thousand civilians had been killed, that the government was in firm control of the situation, that the police were rounding up the student leaders, and that dozens of intellectuals had been detained. The foreign reporters on the radio tended to contradict one another, whereas no mainland Chinese, except for the government’s spokesman, Mu Yuan, and a lieutenant colonel in charge of clearing Tiananmen Square, dared to comment on the event. The officer repeatedly stressed that the People’s Liberation Army had successfully quelled the counterrevolutionary uprising without killing a single civilian. I listened and dozed off by turns. The dormitory was noisy, and numerous radio sets were clamoring.

Ever since I boarded the train back, a terrible vision had tormented me. I saw China in the form of an old hag so decrepit and brainsick that she would devour her children to sustain herself. Insatiable, she had eaten many tender lives before, was gobbling new flesh and blood now, and would surely swallow more. Unable to suppress the horrible vision, all day I said to myself, “China is an old bitch that eats her own puppies!” How my head throbbed, and how my heart writhed and shuddered! With the commotion of two nights ago still in my ears, I feared I was going to lose my mind.

The next morning I didn’t go out either. Toward noon, when I was lying on my bed and listening to the radio, somebody knocked on the door. I raised myself on one elbow and called, “Come in.”

It was Yuman Tan. He wore a yellow V-necked sweater, which made him look like a different man, rather spirited. Seeing his bright-colored outfit, I almost flared up. He seemed anxious, and his eyes were scanning the closed mosquito nets over the other two beds, as if to make sure there wasn’t another person in the room. I sat up and glared at him, believing he must be on an official errand. I grunted, “I’m alone here. What’s up?”

He grinned and said, “Jian, I came to tell you that the city police are coming to arrest you this afternoon. You must go.”

I was transfixed, then began to defend myself as if he were a police officer. I said almost in a cry, “I went to the capital only for personal reasons. Believe me, I was mad at Meimei and wanted to show her that I wasn’t a coward and dared to go to Beijing whenever I liked. Honestly, I didn’t mean to demand democracy and freedom and didn’t even get to Tiananmen Square. You know I’ve never been politically active.”

His face didn’t change. “This makes no difference, Jian. They’ve already decided you’re a counterrevolutionary.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Yesterday afternoon Ying Peng assigned me to prepare all the material about you. I overheard her telling the police on the phone this morning that if you hadn’t lost your mind, you must be a counterrevolutionary. It’s a hopeless case. She’s made up her mind to send you either to prison or to a mental hospital. The police are coming for you early this afternoon. You’d better go now.”

“I didn’t do anything. Why should I run away?”

“Don’t be stupid. This is no time to argue. They took Kailing Wang away yesterday. You must leave now, or at least hide somewhere for a few days.”

“They arrested her? For what?”

“I’ve heard that she gave money to the students, or they couldn’t have gone to Beijing.”

At last his words sank in. I got up and began gathering things I’d take with me. He said anxiously, “I must be going. Don’t let anyone know I told you this.”

“All right, I won’t.”

Before he could head away, I said, “Wait a minute. Why did you run the risk of helping me?” I knew he disliked me as much as I despised him.

He blushed a little. “I told Weiya about your case at lunch. She wanted me to inform you immediately because she doesn’t feel well and can’t come herself.”

“What happened to her?”

“She has taken to her bed since she heard that the army started attacking the students.”

“But why do you look so happy? Because some of them are dead?” I couldn’t help my derision.

“Come on, don’t think I’m heartless. I cried together with Weiya when we heard the news, and I too have soaked my pillow with tears at night, but I have to put on a cheerful face in public. If I look happy, it’s out of habit. A mask is necessary for survival.”

Still I couldn’t curb my anger. He had gained so much from Mr. Yang’s death. Now he was officially the editor in chief of the journal, had Weiya in his palm, and surely would be promoted to professor soon. No wonder he was in high spirits. I said to him, “Listen, Weiya and I were Mr. Yang’s students. To me she’s more than a fellow grad, she’s a friend. If you don’t treat her well, I’ll get even with you one of these days.”

He was taken aback. His face fell as his eyes kept flickering. Yet he said rather solemnly, “Why are you so petulant, so hostile to me? What makes you believe I’m such a lucky man? Weiya and I have just been dating. You think we’re going to get married tomorrow? I wish I were that lucky.”

For a moment I was speechless, just gazing at him. He went on, “Weiya is a such a good girl that, to be honest, I feel I’ve just begun to learn how to love a woman.” Seeing that I was still at a loss, he reminded me, “You must go now, Jian.”

I forced myself to say, “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He nodded, his eyes brightened.

After he left, I washed my face with cold water to refresh my mind a little. I had to act coolheadedly from now on.

Outside, in the scorching sun, Little Owl shouted with both fists thrust upward into the air, “Good news! Great news! The People’s Liberation Army is executing counterrevolutionaries in Beijing. Bang-bang-bang-bang! All tanks are shelling those little bastards!” He was running on his bandy legs from one dormitory to another to spread the victorious news. Then came his wild bawling; somebody must be hitting him.

I dared not take too many of my belongings, because I wanted to give the police the impression that I was still around so they would wait for me to return. I placed my pocket Japanese dictionary and an English grammar on the desk and kept them both opened with a bunch of keys and a stack of flash cards. With two changes of clothes, my Panda radio, and a few books in my shoulder bag, including an English dictionary, I walked out, leaving the door unlocked.

Quickly I pedaled north to Black Brook, a rural town about seven miles away to the east. The police must have been combing trains at the downtown station for local student leaders and for those who had fled Beijing, so I’d better go to a small town.

Biking on the dirt road that had almost no traffic, I thought about Yuman Tan’s visit. To me he used to be a mere toady, a flunky of Secretary Peng’s; but now he seemed a different man. Today he showed a modicum of decency and even some dignity. More than that, I must admit that he acted as a respectable man, capable of honorable feelings. What happened to him? What caused the change?

Weiya, of course. She must have given him some hope and happiness. Yes, he even looked younger today, despite the national tragedy on his mind. So it was happiness and love for a worthy woman that had brought some human decency out of him. How often we hear people say that suffering can purify one’s soul, ennoble one’s heart, and strengthen one’s moral fiber. How earnestly Mr. Yang had claimed on his sickbed, “I’m only afraid that I’m not worthy of my suffering!” Indeed, some great men and women are fortified and redeemed through their suffering, and they even seek sadness instead of happiness, just as van Gogh asserted, “Sorrow is better than joy,” and Balzac declared, “Suffering is one’s teacher.” But these dicta are suitable only for extraordinary souls, the select few. For ordinary people like us, too much suffering can only make us meaner, crazier, pettier, and more wretched. In Yuman Tan’s case, it was a little hope, happiness, and human warmth that made the seed of goodness sprout.

My thoughts turned to Secretary Peng. Why had she moved so swiftly to have me arrested? There were many more important “counterrevolutionaries” in this city; why would the police come for me in such a hurry? It flashed through my mind that Ying Peng must have been determined to get rid of me once and for all, and that she wanted to do this mainly for personal reasons. Although Vice Principal Huang’s son was carrying on with Meimei, there was still a slight possibility that someday I might go to Beijing and rekindle the old flame in her heart. She couldn’t leave for France with that man, who was going to the Sorbonne in the fall just for a year or two. Even if he decided to stay abroad afterward, legally she wouldn’t be allowed to join him until he married her and made the amount of francs required for getting the visa for her. In other words, there would be a period of physical separation between them, so I would have time to step in to reclaim my fiancée. Ying Peng must have been aware of that possibility and knew I was in high dudgeon against her, so she had resolved to root me out now to forestall the trouble down the road. Probably Vice Principal Huang was involved in this scheme too.

This realization made me see how essential personal motives were in political activities. Just as I rushed to Beijing to demonstrate my bravado to Meimei, in the name of revolution people acted on the basis of all kinds of personal interests and reasons. But our history books on the Communist revolution have always left out individuals’ motives. I remembered that when talking about why they joined the Red Army or the Communist Party, older revolutionaries had often said it was because they had wanted to escape an arranged marriage or to avoid debts or just to have enough food and clothes. It’s personal interests that motivate the individual and therefore generate the dynamics of history.

In retrospect, Secretary Peng wasn’t totally wrong about me. I indeed acted like a counterrevolutionary: I aspired not only to show my bravery to Meimei but also, like a free man capable of choice, to dislodge myself from the revolutionary machine. By so doing, I defied a prescribed fate like my teacher’s.

An hour later I arrived at Black Brook. Having little money on me, I couldn’t buy a train ticket for Guangzhou. It occurred to me that the only way to get some cash was to sell my Phoenix bicycle, which was still pretty new. Two years ago I had paid 196 yuan for it, so it was worth at least a hundred now. I walked along the clothing and food stands on the sidewalk of a wide street and asked a few people whether they wanted to buy my bicycle. Nobody was interested.

Finally at a fruit stand I offered it to an old vendor, who looked at it with a curious smirk. Hungry and thirsty, I could hardly take my eyes off the pile of apricots on a trestle table; my mouth was salivating, but I suppressed my craving and focused on selling him my bicycle. Asked again, he shook his gray head and kept waving his palm-leaf fan, though it wasn’t hot at all. Then he gave me a peculiar smile, which seemed to insinuate that he had the cash but suspected the goods were ill-gotten.

I was desperate and pleaded, “Uncle, have pity! My sister is dying in Tianjin and I have to be there as soon as possible. But I don’t have the money for the train fare. Come, take this bike. It’s as sturdy as a mule.”

He chased away a few bluebottles with his fan and shook his bullet-shaped head again.

“You think I’m a thief?” I pressed on.

He squinted at me, waggling his long eyebrows and clattering his carious teeth.

“You really think I’m a thief? Look, I’m a graduate student.” I took my picture ID out of my trouser pocket and showed it to him. “See the big seal here? Absolutely the real thing.”

He looked at the photo, then at me. “Seventy yuan,” he said dryly, and blew his nose onto the ground with his thumb pressing his nostril.

“Plus some apricots,” I responded, having no time to haggle for more.

He grinned, stood up, folded a piece of straw paper into a triangular bag, and put some apricots into it. “Here you are,” he said.

I accepted the fruit. Then he handed me twelve fivers and ten greasy singles. Having given him the bicycle key, I left without delay. In the one-room train station I bought a ticket for Nanjing, where I would switch to an express bound for Guangzhou. I planned to sneak across the border into Hong Kong, though I didn’t know how to do it exactly, unfamiliar with the terrain there. The photo of the woman attacked by a shark, which I had seen in the newspaper in Mr. Yang’s sickroom a month ago, came to mind, but I was not daunted. If need be, I would attempt to swim across the shark-infested water. I was a good swimmer and with luck should be able to make it. From Hong Kong I would go to another country— Canada, or the United States, or Australia, or some place in Southeast Asia where Chinese is widely used.

The train wouldn’t come for two hours. I walked east for about a hundred yards and found a quiet spot behind a stack of used ties. On one of them, a pair of rusted spikes still held a loosened plate. Lifting my eyes, I saw that the sidings and the main tracks all had ties made of concrete now, so these pieces of timber here must have become obsolete. In the distance two sets of shiny rails curved away and disappeared beyond a patch of young aspens. The air smelled of pungent asphalt oozing from the ties behind me. I sat down on a cinder block and began to eat the apricots, most of which were raw and sour; the only two sweet ones were wormy with deep holes in them. I couldn’t stop sucking my breath. I knew I had been taken in. The old fruit seller must purposely have picked some unsalable apricots for me; otherwise he wouldn’t have given them to me so willingly.

Done with the fruit, I noticed a barbershop at a street corner in the northwest, its signboard displaying a scissors, a hair clipper, and a pot of steaming water. With a black-headed match I burned my student ID, then rose to my feet and went to the shop to get a crew cut. Without my long hair my face would appear narrower, and from now on I would use a different name.