The Crazed

9

Two days later Kailing Wang, the woman lecturer in the Foreign Languages Department, came to see Mr. Yang. She brought along a bouquet of red silk roses and a copy of The Good Woman of Szechwan, which had just come out from Tomorrow Press in Shanghai. She said the book was well received and there would be a review in the journal Foreign Drama praising the brisk, sturdy translation. Having no idea what to do with the artificial flowers, I just held them for her as she tried to talk to my teacher.

She was of medium height and wore a puce dress, which made her appear less plump and set off her full bust. Although her appearance reminded me of Mr. Yang’s words about the peachy breasts, I bridled my wayward thoughts. Actually I very much respected Kailing. Ten years ago her husband, a regimental staff officer, had been killed in a border battle between Chinese and Vietnamese armies. Since then, she had raised their son alone. Today apparently she hadn’t expected to see my teacher in such a wretched condition. She said to me, her voice torn, “He wasn’t like this last week. Why did they tell me on the phone that he was getting better? This is awful!” She kept wringing her hands while her eyes misted up.

Indeed this afternoon Mr. Yang was too delirious to talk with anybody. Now and again his lips twisted into a puerile grin as if he were a victim of Down syndrome. The book that bore his name as a cotranslator made no special impression on him, and Kailing seemed to him a total stranger. To whatever she said he wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t tell whether he recognized her or not. He grunted and groaned vaguely as if having a migraine, and his upper body shuddered frequently.

Taking Mr. Yang’s lifeless hand and folding his fingers, Kailing burst into tears. She went on wiping her cheeks with a white handkerchief. Her face at once looked aged, slightly sallow, as if its muscles had lost their elasticity. Her nose was clogged and a little rounded. As she sobbed, her full chin couldn’t stop shaking. Observing her, I wished I could have said something to console her. Then she bent forward to peer into his eyes, which were still blank and rheumy and without any trace of recognition. On his swollen face his eyes appeared thready and his lips parted. I was fighting down the impulse to grab his shoulders and shake him out of this wooden state.

Kailing remained standing in front of him for more than twenty minutes. Now and again she looked into his eyes, eager to find out whether he still knew her, but he seemed like a senseless retardate. I told her that this was just a bad day and that usually he was much more lively and clearheaded. She nodded without a word.

At last she let go of his hand. Placing the book near his knee, she said, “Professor Yang, you must get well. I need you. You promised to work with me on Brecht’s poetry.” He made no answer.

“I’ve done a draft of some of his poems and like them very much,” she added.

Still he was wordless. She looked at me, her eyes filled with disappointment, while her right thumb was massaging her temple.

On leaving, she told me to let her know if Mr. Yang needed anything. She said quietly, “When he’s himself again, show him the book. He’ll be pleased.”

“I’ll do that,” I promised, putting the roses on the bed so as to see her off.

“I’m sorry to give way to my emotions like this. I’m so upset.” She managed a smile.

“I understand.”

“I wish I could’ve brought some fresh flowers. I went to several stores but couldn’t find any.”

“Don’t worry about that. These last longer.”

She smiled rather bitterly and took her leave. As she slouched out of the room, I followed her for a few steps, then stopped to watch her shuffle away until she disappeared at the corner of the stairs.

Whatever her role in Mr. Yang’s life, her visit saddened and touched me. She was a widow about whom there had been a great deal of gossip, yet today, in my presence, she was not ashamed of shedding tears for him, a man she cared about deeply. It was common knowledge that after studying a foreign language for some years, some women tended to become effusive, romantic, and even warmhearted. This must be one of the reasons why the girls in the Foreign Languages Department were usually more attractive than those majoring in other fields. But this didn’t explain my feelings about Kailing. I was moved by her visit because she had brought into this spooky room some human warmth, which continued to affect me after she left.

Why is The Good Woman of Szechwan so popular these days? The question came to mind again. I couldn’t figure out a definite answer. I had read several articles on this play, none of which said anything illuminating, all in the manner of a biographical introduction. The critics, or buffs, just praised it as a masterpiece, but couldn’t say why. Perhaps because the story was set in China, a place rarely presented in serious Western literature, they had rushed to write about it when Brecht’s works could finally be translated into Chinese after the Cultural Revolution. To me, however, the play seemed inferior to Mother Courage and Her Children and shouldn’t be judged his best drama as they claimed.

Mr. Yang stirred a little and opened his eyes, which seemed apprehensive, shifting. I was puzzled, wondering why he hadn’t recognized Kailing just now if he was wide awake.

“Help me, please,” he whispered earnestly.

“With what?” I asked in surprise.

“I–I wet my bed.” He averted his face.

I touched the sheet beneath his thighs. My goodness, he had soiled his pajamas, the quilt, the sheet, and the cotton-padded mattress. The pallet must have been wet too. “Sit tight, I’ll be right back,” I told him, then hurried out to the nurses’ station.

Hong Jiang, the old woman, happened to be on duty. She came up with me immediately. Together we pulled a rattly gurney loaded with clean bedding and clothing. To my knowledge, this was the first time Mr. Yang had lost control of his bladder, which Nurse Jiang said was common among stroke patients.

At the sight of us my teacher murmured, “I’m sorry, really sorry.”

“It’s all right. Don’t feel bad about it,” the nurse told him.

I helped him climb onto the gurney so that Hong Jiang could change the bedding. It was impossible for us to replace the thick pallet, whose rice straw had an eye-catching blotch in the middle, as big as a large lotus leaf, so the nurse spread a plastic bag over the wet spot, then went about making the bed with the things we had brought — she unrolled the thin mattress, threw the sheet over it, and unfolded the quilt. She did everything expertly.

Meanwhile, I took off his striped pajamas and flowered shorts. I crumpled them into a ball and wiped his fleshy thighs and backside with it. He reddened and kept his eyes shut all along. He was very cooperative, so without difficulty I helped him put on the fresh shorts I had taken out of the cabinet, in which his underclothes and socks were stored. Next I pulled the clean pajamas on him, then changed his shirt, whose tail was wet too.

Nurse Jiang drew away the gurney loaded with the soiled bedding and clothing while I was huffing and puffing. Quietly Mr. Yang began sobbing. He lay on his side with his face toward the window. I walked around the bed and said to him, “This is normal. Don’t feel so bad.”

“I never thought I could become such a nuisance,” he said. “Oh, I should have died.”

“Come on, nobody blames you.”

“I want you to promise me never to tell anyone about this.”

“Of course, I won’t breathe a word.”

“Thank you.” He let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes again.

I leaned my rear end against the windowsill and observed his jowls twitching and his Adam’s apple jiggling. Once every few seconds he stuck out his tongue to lick his gray mustache.