The Crazed

5

Nurse Chen put a thermos of hot water on the bedside cabinet in Mr. Yang’s room and asked me, “Was your professor educated abroad?” She looked perkier than two days ago.

“No, he’s a genuine Chinese product, homebred like you and me.”

“I heard him speak foreign words last night.”

“Really, in what language?”

“I’ve no clue, but it was definitely not English or Japanese. It sounded strange.”

“Was it like this, ‘Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen?’ ”

She shook her head in amazement, then giggled. “What language is that? You sounded like an officer rapping out orders.”

“It’s German.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s the beginning of a book of poems Mr. Yang often quoted, Duino Elegies. It means ‘Who, if I cry, would hear me among the angelic order?’ Something like that.”

“My, that’s deep, I’m impressed. Tell you what, he might have spoken German.”

Her praise embarrassed me a little, for that line was the only part of the long poem I had memorized. We often committed a passage or a few lines to memory not only because we liked them but also because we could impress others with them. That’s one of the tricks of the academic game.

Mr. Yang had never spoken foreign words during my shift. He could read German and knew some French. He loved Rilke and had once made me read Duino Elegies in a bilingual edition after he came to know I had studied German for a year. But I didn’t like the poems that much, perhaps because I hadn’t read them carefully.

Mali Chen raised her hand, looking at her wristwatch. “I should be going, the doc must be here already. Bye-bye now.” She fluttered her fingers at me as she made for the door. She left behind a puff of perfume like almond.

I knew she had come to see Banping, who had left fifteen minutes before. Although Banping appeared clumsy and dull, he had a way of getting along with others, especially with women. We had started caring for our teacher just a few days before, but already he was mixing with the nurses as chummily as if he had known them for months. I wondered whether this was due to his rustic looks and manner, which might tend to put most women at ease — they would drop their guard without fearing any emotional entanglement with him. By comparison, I must have seemed like an eccentric to them, a typical bookworm, high-strung and a bit morose.

Mr. Yang was quiet and stationary. I took out my textbook, Contemporary Japanese, and began reviewing some paragraphs marked in pencil. The exams were just a month away, and I had too much to study. Japanese would be a jinx on me; if only I had taken it up a few years earlier.

As I tried parsing a complicated sentence in my mind, Mr. Yang snickered. I raised my head and saw his lips stir murmuring something. I averted my eyes and made an effort to concentrate on the textbook, but in no time his words grew clear. He chuckled and said, “They look like peaches, don’t they?” He smacked his lips, his face shining.

My curiosity was piqued. What did he compare to peaches? I put down the book and listened attentively. He beamed, “I’m such a lucky man. He-he-he, you know, your nipples taste like coffee candy. Mmmm. . ah, let me have them again.” His lips parted eagerly.

I was amazed. He was talking to a woman! No wonder he looked so happy. He chuckled, but his words turned ragged.

Who was the woman? His wife? Unlikely. They two had been aloof toward each other in recent years; besides, she couldn’t possibly have that kind of breasts. In my mind’s eye I saw Mrs. Yang’s chest flat like a washboard. She was as thin as a mantis, so the peachy breasts must have belonged to another woman. Could he be having a fling with someone? That was possible. There was a fortyish woman lecturer in the Foreign Languages Department, named Kailing Wang, who had recently collaborated with him in translating Brecht’s Good Woman of Szechwan. She was quite busty, soft-skinned, and convivial. Mr. Yang and she had been pretty close and often teased each other playfully. Several times I had seen them together in his apartment working on the translation. They laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy each other’s company. Once I saw them chatting over a bottle of plum wine; another time I found her cooking a sausage dinner for him in his apartment. Besides her, a few women faculty members in the Literature Department were also close to him, though they dared not show their friendship overtly for fear of Professor Song’s notice.

On the other hand, the peachy breasts could belong to his wife, if Mr. Yang had in his mind an intimate moment from their early years. She might have had a full body when she was young. Or perhaps this erotic episode had occurred only in his dream, not in reality.

“Sorry, there’s no chamber pot in here,” Mr. Yang said. “He-he, you’d better peepee into the washbasin under the bed. .” Gleefully he imitated the urinating sound: “Pshhhhh, pshhhhh, pshhhhhh — yes, yes, use the basin.”

The thought came to me that he must have been in a dormitory or a guesthouse, since every home would have a chamber pot or a toilet.

“I can see you,” he piped, then grinned, baring his tobacco-stained teeth.

Who was the woman he was talking to? She might not be his wife, because the Yangs had a toilet in their apartment, which she could use at night. When did this happen? Long ago?

Then I began to revise my reasoning, since it was entirely possible that he and his wife had stayed a night somewhere other than their home and had had to resort to a washbasin in place of a chamber pot.

“My goodness,” Mr. Yang said with increasing relish, “how I adore your hips. Gorgeous, like two large loaves of bread fresh from a steamer.” He paused, chuckling, then went on, “Yes, I’m shameless, can’t help it, shameless and crazy. Come on, give me one on the mouth.”

I was all ears, but his voice was dwindling, though he still smiled mysteriously. I listened for another minute without understanding a thing, so I returned to my textbook.

But soon he started moaning. His voice suggested a sheep bleating and jarred on my nerves. In my heart I couldn’t help but blame him: Come on, stop speaking in riddles. If you want to say something, spill it out. I have to work. If I flunk the exams, I won’t be able to go to Beijing and taste Meimei’s nipples there.

To my astonishment, he shouted without opening his eyes, “Forget it! I know you just want to ruin me.”

I held my breath, wondering what this was about. He went on angrily, “I have no savings. Even if you kill me, I cannot come up with that kind of money.” After a pause, he resumed, “I never knew you were so sneaky. Why did you encourage me to go abroad in the first place? You set a trap for me, didn’t you? Now go away. I cannot bear the sight of you.”

Undoubtedly he was talking about the $1,800 he had spent. Weiya was right — the university must indeed have demanded that he pay the money back. But who was he talking to? A school official? That seemed implausible, because his familiar tone of voice indicated that he knew the person quite well. According to Weiya’s account, it was Secretary Peng who had pressed him for the money. The unidentified person could be she, but how had she set a trap for him? Ignorant and almost illiterate, she couldn’t possibly have known how a Canadian conference operated and that Mr. Yang, though already taken off the panel, would go to North America merely for sight-seeing. This made no sense to me.

“Let me tell you, I shall never knuckle under to you,” he sneered. His face, flushing, expanded with rage while his lips turned blue and sweat beaded on his cheeks. Never had I seen him so angry. Could he be arguing with Secretary Peng? I wasn’t sure. He had always been polite to her, at least in appearance, though I knew he despised her at heart. The words he had just uttered sounded more like something he would spit in Professor Song’s face. Could Song be the schemer?

Mr. Yang interrupted my thoughts, declaring in a raspy voice, “Nobody can destroy my soul!”

I was perplexed. This seemed irrelevant to what had gone before. Where was he now? With the same person?

Then his face began twisting, his stout nose red and crinkled. He looked in pain, groaning, “Oh, don’t hurt my children, please! Don’t separate them! I beg you to leave them alone.” He began sniveling, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. His flabby chin kept shaking as if stung by something. Yet I couldn’t tell whether he was really heartbroken or just shamming.

This was crazy, beyond me. Having only one child, why did he mention his children and beg his tormentor not to separate them? Apparently he had mixed things up. On second thought I wondered if he had another daughter or a son I didn’t know of, in other words, an illegitimate one. This was hardly plausible. To my knowledge, Meimei had always been her parents’ only child.

Now Mr. Yang was wailing, tears wetting his cheeks. I went over and waved my hand before his glazed eyes, which gave no response. He seemed at another place, dealing with a different person. He cried out, “I don’t want a full professorship anymore! Give it to anyone you like. I don’t need a larger apartment either, I’m completely satisfied with what I have. Oh, please don’t be so mean! Have mercy! I’ve a family to keep. Don’t separate my children. For heaven’s sake, can’t you leave me alone?” He had to stop to catch his breath. With a warm towel I wiped his face, which went on shaking.

Although he sounded stubborn and grief-stricken, he now looked obsequious, as if making an effort to smile ingratiatingly. His jaw muscles were tight, trembling. He resumed speaking, but his voice grew weaker and weaker, his words again unintelligible. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t figure out anything. Meanwhile, the look on his face became more and more fawning. He smiled and moaned alternately. Never had I seen such an eerie face, which raised goose bumps on my forearms.

I was confused and upset. When I took over from Banping, I had expected a relatively quiet afternoon, like the day before, so that I could review a few chapters of the textbook, but again Mr. Yang spoiled my plan. My desire for work was all gone. Stretched out on the wicker chair, I closed my eyes and gave free rein to my thoughts about his secret life.