Seeing the black ceramic tiles on the roof, Bin couldn’t help but envy Yen his residence, which had apparently belonged to a rich family in the old China. Yen lives like a landlord, Bin thought.
As he entered the outer room, Bin heard voices talking. A meeting was in full swing, with Song and Yen arguing loudly.
They stopped to greet Bin, then told him that a lengthy letter of complaint had just been composed and that they had been discussing where to send it. Jiang had an aunt in Beijing who was an editor at the journal Law and Democracy, so he thought she must know somebody in the State Council and could help them present the letter directly to the Civil Inquiry Department.
Yen disagreed, saying, “China is a huge country, and that department must receive thousands of letters a day. Ours can’t be special by any means. Who knows in what year they will handle our case if we follow the common procedure?”
“That’s true,” Bin said. “I wrote them half a year ago. So far I haven’t heard a word from them.”
Jiang batted his round eyes; he was unhappy about what they had said, but on second thought he felt they might be right. Time was crucial here; they couldn’t afford to delay even for a month, to say nothing of a few years. What move should they take then? Everybody was racking his brain for an answer.
Bin slapped his knee and said loudly, “Well, why look for the donkey while you’re riding him?” He turned to Jiang. “Why not ask your aunt to have it published in Law and Democracy? That’s an authoritative journal. They published one of my seal prints two years ago. I’m sure any words from Beijing will make the leaders incontinent.”
They all laughed and agreed it was a good idea. Song said, “I think we should send somebody to Beijing, to make sure they help us without delay. It will save a lot of time.”
“Yes, we must do it immediately,” Yen added.
Since none of the editorial staff could leave without arousing their superiors’ suspicion, Bin became the only candidate for the trip. In addition, he was the main victim and had to have his own case rectified too, so everybody wanted him to leave for Beijing the next morning, taking the four o’clock train directly from the county town.
“What’s the rush?” Bin asked.
They said it was already Tuesday, and the letter of complaint must reach the editorial board of the journal within the week.
Bin didn’t mind visiting the capital, but the opportunity had turned up so suddenly he wasn’t prepared. So he began explaining the inconvenience. Yet, they all begged him to consider the dismal situation, the improvement of which depended solely on the success of this trip. How could he eat and sleep well while his friends were all in deep water and scorching fire? He was obligated to go. Please, no more dillydallying.
After only ten minutes’ persuasion, Bin agreed.
A few problems, however, had to be solved before his departure. First, he couldn’t wear his canvas pants, which were work clothes, and plastic sandals to the capital. Look at them, there were a few oil stains on the trouser legs, and one of the sandals had lost its buckle, the lacing belt was stuck between his toes. Second, he had no national grain coupon with him and no money for the train fare. Third, he had to have an official letter, or no place would let him stay overnight and he might be arrested. Fourth, his wife had to learn about this trip as soon as possible; otherwise she might think he had been kidnapped and go to the plant, demanding that the leaders return him to her. Fifth, he had to cover up this trip medically, or else the leaders would know of it and take countermeasures. Sixth, and most important of all, he ought to take a painting or a piece of calligraphy with him as a gift for Jiang’s uncle, his aunt’s husband, who was a literary scholar. This wasn’t a bribe. Every educated Chinese understood that a work of art could be neither eaten nor worn — it had no practical value at all and only showed the artist’s cultivation and personality. Presenting someone with a painting was something like a spiritual exchange and was absolutely appropriate and necessary for this occasion. Those cadres on the investigating team were benighted country boors: they took “Execute the Devils” as a bribe only because they were ignorant of the literati’s convention.
Jiang said he would go home and get some grain coupons and a hundred yuan for Bin. Because his uncle was a physician in charge at the Country Central Hospital, Song was going to ask the old man to make out a sick-leave certificate for Bin, which Yen would personally take to Dismount Fort the next morning, so that before noon Meilan could have it passed on to Hsiao Peng, the director of Maintenance. As long as she kept people from entering their home, no one would discover Bin wasn’t ill. Of course Shanshan had to be careful too, not to let out the secret that her dad wasn’t home. As for the official letter, Yen happened to have a blank piece of stationery at home, with their editorial seal on it, so he could fill it out for Bin.
Though Yen found a pair of leather loafers that were Bin’s size, no suitable pants were available. The other men were either too bulky or too tall for Bin to wear their clothes. What should they do? Then the thought came to Yen that Bin wasn’t much taller than his wife. He went into the inner room, opened the wardrobe, and took out a pair of black slacks for Bin to try on. Bin put them on, the fine silk giving his legs a caressing tingle. Amazingly, they suited him well. “You look like a kung-fu master,” Song said. They all laughed.
Indeed, combined with the white, V-necked T-shirt and the loafers whose thick soles added two inches to Bin’s height, the slacks made him look natural and rather elegant.
The work of art, however, was difficult. It’s common sense that artistic inspiration cannot be summoned. Even though Bin was able to make a piece of calligraphy under the pressure of the moment, it would be impossible to mount it overnight. Yen had quite a few paintings done by himself, but none of them looked good enough for this occasion. Finally, again it was Yen who came up with a solution. Since Bin was a sort of stone epigraphist, why couldn’t he carve a seal for Jiang’s uncle? One didn’t need inspiration for carving a few words on a stone. What one needed were skills, strength, and artistic cultivation. Yen told them he had several jade stones at home.
Jiang was pleased and said, “Damn you, Yen, your belly is stuffed with ideas; no wonder it’s so big. You should be an aide to the provincial governor.”
“All right, when you reach that position, don’t forget me,” Yen said, and slapped his own chest with both hands.
They laughed heartily.
Bin knew it would take him a few hours to complete the carving, but this was the only practicable thing to do. He chose a green jade stone, picked up Yen’s tool kit, and went to the inner room, where he would be alone, to concentrate on the work.
After biting his fingertips for a few moments, he decided to engrave Tu Fu’s line “Your brush writes, raising wind and rain.” It seemed no words were more appropriate as a compliment to Jiang’s uncle, a senior editor in a publishing house. Bin wrote out the words in the style of the ancient official script on the face of the seal and then began carving. He felt Yen’s knife was not as keen as his own, but it would have to do. Soon his hands were sweaty.
Meanwhile, in the other room Jiang was writing a letter for Bin to carry to his aunt. Song had left for his uncle’s to get the sick-leave certificate. In the kitchen Yen was cutting snap beans and pork with which to cook noodles for a midnight snack. Everyone was delightedly busy. The only other time they remembered being as brisk and purposeful was the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, when everybody had fought with a brush at night, writing posters and slogans.