“Gentlemen, I, Qin Er, am a thickheaded old fool, no better than the mantis who thought it could stop a wagon, someone who has overrated his own abilities, a man who has outlived his usefulness and has shamed himself by hanging on to life. I have deeply offended you, and can only beg for your forgiveness!”
He then clasped his fists in front of his midriff and respectfully shook them several times, before crouching over like a cooked shrimp and leaving the classroom with light, unsteady steps. Once he was outside, we heard the muddled sound of his coughing.
Thus ended our first class of the day.
Our second class was music.
Music – our instructor, Ji Qiongzhi, who had been sent down by the county government, laid the tip of her pointer on the blackboard, where large words had been written in chalk, and said in a high-pitched voice – “For this class in music, there will be no textbook. Our textbooks will be here” – she pointed to her head, her chest – “and here” – she pointed to her diaphragm. She turned to write on the blackboard as she continued, “There are lots of ways to make music – on a flute or fiddle, humming a tune or singing an aria – it’s all music. You may not understand now, but you will someday. Singing is a form of chanting, but not always. Singing is an important musical activity and, for a remote village like this, will be the most important aspect of our music lessons. So today we will learn a song,” she went on as she wrote on the blackboard. From where I sat, looking out the window, I could see the counterrevolutionary’s son, Sima Liang, and the traitor’s daughter, Sha Zaohua, both of whom had been refused permission to attend classes and were assigned to tending sheep, gazing wistfully at the schoolhouse. They were standing in knee-high grass, backed by a dozen or more thick-stemmed sunflowers, with their broad green leaves and brilliant yellow flowers. All those yellow faces mirrored the melancholy in my heart. Seeing the flashing eyes brought tears to mine. As I took measure of the window, with its thick willow lattices, I imagined myself turning into a thrush and flying outside to bathe in the golden sunlight of a summer afternoon and perch on the head of one of those sunflowers, alongside all the aphids and ladybugs.
The song we were being taught that day was “Women’s Liberation Anthem.” Our teacher bent over at the waist as she scribbled the last few lines at the bottom of the blackboard. The fullness of her upraised backside reminded me of a mare’s rump. A feathered arrow, its tip smeared with sticky peachtree sap, made its lopsided way past me and hit her upraised backside. Evil laughter swept through the classroom. The archer, Ding Jingou, who sat right behind me, waved his bamboo bow triumphantly a time or two before quickly hiding it from sight. Our music teacher retrieved the arrow from its target and smiled as she looked it over, then flung it down on the table, where it stuck straight up after quivering briefly. “Nice shooting,” she said calmly as she laid down her pointer and shed her military jacket, which was white from countless washings. With the jacket gone, her white short-sleeved, V-necked blouse, with its turned-down collar, dazzled our eyes. It was tucked into her trousers, which were cinched by a wide leather belt that had turned black and shiny with age. She had a thin waist, high, arching breasts, and full hips. Her military trousers had also turned white from countless washings. Finally, she had on a pair of fashionable white sneakers. To make her appearance more appealing, she cinched her belt even tighter right in front of us. She smiled and displayed all the charm of a lovely white fox; but the smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she now displayed the ferocity of a white fox. “You’ve just driven away Qin Er. What heroes!” With a smirk she removed the arrow from the table and jiggled it with three fingers. “What a remarkable arrow,” she said. “Is it Li Guang’s? Or maybe Hua Rong’s. Anyone dare to stand up and put a name to this?” Her lovely black eyes swept the classroom. No one stood up. She grabbed her pointer. Fowl She smacked the table. “I’m warning you,” she said, “in my classroom you’ll wrap all your little hoodlum tricks in a piece of cotton and take them home to your mothers” – “Teacher, my mother’s dead!” Wu Yunyu shouted-”Whose mother is dead?” she asked. “Stand up.” Wu Yunyu stood up, trying to look unconcerned. “Come up to the front, where I can see you.” Wu Yunyu, wearing a greasy snakeskin cap down low over his wispy head – as it was all year round, even, it was said, when he slept at night or bathed in the river – strutted up to the front of the classroom. “What’s your name?” she asked with a smile. Wu Yunyu told her his name with blustery airs. “Students,” she said, “my name is Ji Qiongzhi. I was orphaned as a baby and spent my first seven years living in a garbage heap. I then joined a traveling circus. There isn’t a hoodlum or delinquent type I haven’t seen. I learned to do stunt cycling, walk a tightrope, swallow a sword, and spit fire. Then I became an animal trainer, starting with dogs and moving to monkeys, bears, and finally tigers. I can teach a dog to jump through a hoop, a monkey to climb a pole, a bear to ride a bicycle, and a tiger to roll over. At the age of seventeen, I joined a revolutionary army. I’ve battled the enemy, my sword entering white and exiting bright red. At twenty, I was sent to the South China Military Academy, where I learned sports, painting, singing, and dancing. At twenty-five I married Ma Shengli, head of intelligence at the Public Security Bureau and a champion wrestler whom I can fight to a draw.” She brushed back her short hair. She had a dark, healthy, revolutionary face; pert breasts that strained proudly against her shirt; a valiant nose, fierce, thin lips, and teeth as white as limestone. “I, Ji Qiongzhi, am not afraid of tigers,” she said as dryly as plant ash, as she glared contemptuously at Wu Yunyu. “So do you think I’m afraid of you?” At the same time she was voicing her contempt, she reached out with her pointer, inserting the tip under the edge of Wu’s cap, and, with a flick of the wrist, tore it off his head, like flipping a flatcake on a griddle, with an audible whoosh. It all happened in a mere second. Wu covered his head with both hands, the scalp looking like a rotten potato; his arrogant expression disappeared without a trace and was replaced by a look of stupidity. Still holding his head, he looked up, searching for the object that kept his disfigurement hidden. It was high up in the air, dancing and spinning on the tip of her pointer, round and round like a circus performer’s prop; the sight of his cap spinning so artfully, so captivatingly, drove the soul right out of Wu Yunyu’s body. Another flick of her wrist, and the cap soared into the air, only to settle back onto the tip of the pointer and spin some more. I was dazzled. She flung it into the air again. But this time, she guided the ugly, smelly thing so that it landed at Wu Yunyu’s feet. “Put that crummy hat back on your head and get your ass back in your seat,” she said with a look of disgust. “I’ve eaten more salt than you have noodles,” she said as she picked the arrow up off the table. Her glare landed on one of the students. “You! I’m talking to you,” she said icily. “Bring me that bow!” Ding Jingou stood up nervously, walked to the platform, and obediently laid the bow on the table. “Back to your seat!” she said, picking up the bow. She tried it out. “The bamboo’s too soft, and the bowstring’s next to useless! The best bowstrings are made from a cow’s tendon.” Fitting the feathered arrow onto the horsehair string, she pulled it back lightly and took aim at Ding Jingou’s head. He scrambled under his desk. Just then a fly buzzed in on the light streaming through the window. Ji Qiongzhi took careful aim. Twang, went the horsehair string. The fly dropped to the floor. “Anyone need more proof?” she asked. Not a peep from any of the students. She smiled sweetly, forming a dimple on her chin. “Now we can begin. Here are the lyrics to our song”: