“Comrades,” Liu said loudly, “let me announce another decision here. Yesterday afternoon we received a letter from the Provincial Teachers University. It says they might admit Shao Bin to their Fine Arts Department and asks us, the plant’s leaders, to give an evaluation of him and the permission for him to leave. Before we reached a decision, yesterday evening Shao Bin and his wife went to Director Ma’s home with this gift.” Liu lifted the thirty-odd apples and dropped them on the desk with a thump. “And he begged Director Ma to give him the permission to go. Too late, I say. You can’t embrace the Buddha’s feet only in your hour of need, when for years you’ve never bothered to burn a joss stick or kowtow to him.”
Liu turned to Bin and kept on. “Shao Bin, you’ve painted cartoons about us and made us look like corrupt officials. But why do you practice corruption shamelessly, bribing a revolutionary cadre? Let me tell you this now: We’re not that cheap; a bag of apples won’t buy us off.” He lifted the string bag again. Before he put it down, a camera flashed at him; as arranged, Dongfang had brought his camera to the meeting.
Some people smirked, while a few sighed, shaking their heads. “Comrades,” Liu resumed, “three weeks ago Shao Bin bit my butt. Now he’s tried to bribe Director Ma. I used to think he was merely a lunatic, suffering from schizophrenia or something, but the bribe has made me change my mind. He must have a moral problem too. Therefore this morning our Party Committee sent out a letter, together with the photos of my wound and these apples as two samples of his ‘work,’ to the university and informed them that we wouldn’t agree about their decision and wouldn’t provide Shao Bin’s file for them. In short, he’s not qualified to go to college, neither mentally nor morally.”
Bin broke out wailing, which scared the people around him. He yelled, “I screw your ancestors! You wait and see, I’ll dump your grandsons into a well!”
The last sentence horrified Liu and Ma, because each had only one grandson, a single seedling of the entire family, and Bin had said clearly, “grandsons,” meaning both of theirs. Though he might be bluffing, a desperate madman like him could do anything. If he did that, their family lines would be cut. Now they doubted whether they had done a wise thing by sending out the letter of refusal so soon. It seemed they had pressed Bin too hard without giving him a way out. Naturally he had exploded. Ma couldn’t help glaring at Liu, who had convinced him that they had best hold Bin back; the night before, Ma had been inclined to let him leave.
For a good two minutes neither Liu nor Ma knew what to do; they stood there whispering to each other and scratching their scalps and necks, while Bin was weeping and sniffling, his face buried in his arms on the desk. The meeting turned chaotic. Some people said the leaders should let Bin go; they could deduct his bonus and even beat him, but stopping him from entering college was way too much; by doing so, they ruined his whole life. If there was no hope left, who wouldn’t go berserk? Some said the leaders had promised to support whoever took the entrance exams, and now Bin was admitted, which was an event that should be celebrated in the plant, why didn’t they keep their word? Who would try again the next year? Who would believe them in the future? Liu and Ma as leaders were too nearsighted and narrow-minded. As for the bag of apples, Bin must have done it in desperation; it was perfectly understandable if you were utterly confused and frightened and had no idea what to do. However, those who had always hated this pseudo-scholar remained silent, smirking.
Finally Director Ma clapped his hands and declared the meeting was over.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Meilan moaned after Bin told her what the leaders had done. “I thought the Mas didn’t have Indian apples. I didn’t mean to bribe him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?” He was angry and had planned to slap her.
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d be too stubborn to allow me.” She began weeping, blaming herself for having ruined his future. Her tears softened him.
Instead of questioning her further, he handed her a wet towel. He felt that in a way he himself was to blame too. He had seen her handbag bulging strangely but hadn’t asked what was inside; he had been too careless, knowing she was a sort of oddball. Yet all in all, it was neither her fault nor his. Those hoodlums just wanted to do him in and had made a pond out of a pee puddle. It doesn’t matter if something bad has happened; what matters is the person who takes advantage of it. Wicked people will create misfortune for you.
That night he wrote to Yen and told him that everything was gone. The university would surely accept the official statement from the plant and drop him. He swore he would avenge this injustice someday, but for the time being he had to get out of here. Obviously the leaders were set on broiling him alive. He felt as though his heart would explode with rage at any moment. “A bomb,” he wrote, “my heart is like an atomic bomb, eager to blast everything.” He knew he might grab hold of Liu’s and Ma’s grandsons and hurt the children badly if more pressure was put on him. At the end of the letter, he begged Yen, “Help your older brother, please!”
It was a long letter, six pages written with a pen. After completing it, he was too exhausted to climb onto the bed; he remained at the desk and let his head rest in the crook of his arm. In no time a thread of saliva began dribbling from the corner of his mouth. As he was snoring away, a soft sound whistled in his nose.
He slept this way until daybreak.
Eleven
ON THURSDAY EVENING a young man came to visit Bin. He introduced himself as Song Zhi, a reporter and a colleague of Yen’s at the newspaper Environment. He was bareheaded and wore an old army uniform; one of the knees of his pants was covered with a rectangular patch that looked brand new. He said Yen had told Bin’s story to the editorial staff, and everybody had felt outraged by Liu’s and Ma’s abuse of power. So the editor in chief, Jiang Ping, sent him over to investigate and report on the case.
Bin was impressed by Song, who not only had good manners but also looked handsome, with a square face, a straight nose, large, sparkling eyes, and broad shoulders. He felt Song was a trustworthy man who seemed to exude compassion.
They talked over tea and melons. Outside the window, the moon was wavering above the aspen crowns like a silver sickle slicing strips of clouds. Katydids were chirping away, and a young male voice was singing Peking opera in a neighboring courtyard.
Bin was talking about how evil Liu and Ma were while Song was writing down his words in a notebook. He went on for about twenty minutes; then he stopped to declare loudly, “They’re both thugs and bandits without any Communist conscience. I often wonder if they are from reactionary families; otherwise, where on earth could they have got such wicked minds? One night I dreamed Liu Shu was a fat landlord who died of thousands of cuts, hacked to pieces by revolutionary masses. In any case, we must have these vermin kicked out of the Party.” He kept slapping his thigh.
“Don’t be too emotional, Comrade Old Shao. Just tell me the facts,” said Song.
At that, Bin swallowed a gulp of tea to calm himself down. He remembered he himself wasn’t a Party member yet, though he had applied for membership many times. So he had better not discuss how the Party should punish the two leaders.
“Say everything clearly to Young Song,” Meilan told Bin, “or how can he expose them?”