As to Bin’s lodging for the night, Mr. Chai suggested that he stay at a small inn outside the compound, because some of the editors, living in the same building as the Chais, would infer that Peina was involved in the case if they saw Bin enter or come out of her apartment. Then they wouldn’t believe what Bin said at the editorial department the next day.
Bin thought Mr. Chai’s suggestion was reasonable. So after tea, when the twilight turned indigo, Mr. Chai took Bin to the inn through the back door of the compound. Walking along the sidewalk of a boulevard, under the fat sycamore leaves, he explained to Bin that he would have kept him company for another few hours, but two editors of Law and Democracy were coming to his home that night for a mah-jongg party at which they were going to discuss some publishing matters.
To make up for the early parting, Mr. Chai paid three yuan for Bin’s lodging after telling the front-desk clerk that Bin was a friend of his and that they should give him a decent bed, which they managed to do.
At eight the next morning Bin arrived at the gray building that Law and Democracy shared with a bookstore. He climbed the creaking stairs to the top floor to see the editor in chief. To his surprise, the editorial department had only one large office. In the room four ceiling fans were languidly flapping their brass wings; about a dozen desks stood here and there; two khaki screens separated a few desks from the rest. A young woman with long hair over her sloping shoulders led Bin to the only mahogany desk, at which a dyspeptic-faced man, around forty, was sitting and writing on a pad of paper. Behind him, on the wall, spread a colorful map of China like a giant rooster.
“Here’s Editor in Chief Wang,” the woman said to Bin and turned away, back to the reception desk. Bin noticed that Peina was reading at a desk twenty feet away. She kept her head low but threw glances in his direction now and then.
“I’m Wang Min,” the editor said, holding out his hand indifferently.
Bin gave his fleshy hand a shake. The second he sat down, he cleared his throat and began to speak. “My name is Shao Bin. I’m a worker and artist, from Gold County, Liaoning Province. I’m thirty-two, born in the Dog Year. I came to the capital to present a petition to you and hope you will help me and my comrades. I believe this is the place to look for justice.” He paused, pulled a large envelope from his satchel, and presented it with both hands to the editor in chief.
Wang took the letter of complaint out of the envelope without removing his bleary eyes from Bin’s face. He was a little puzzled by Bin’s expression, which was between smiling and weeping. Tears were flickering in Bin’s eyes and a few running down his cheeks. Wang couldn’t tell whether Bin was too excited or too upset; he wondered why tears were shed so easily. He lowered his head and glanced through the first two pages of the complaint, then put it on the desk and asked Bin to talk about his case.
Bin went on, “I began to work as a fitter in Dismount Fort’s Harvest Fertilizer Plant in 1971. I have worked well and studied conscientiously. Although I have only eight years’ formal education, I taught myself painting, calligraphy, epigraphy, and poetry. The fine arts are my only hobby — no, my life. Up to now I have published about a hundred pieces of artwork in newspapers and magazines. To put it immodestly, I was the best-known man in our town. Because of my ability and name, some people in the plant are jealous of me.”
He took a gray handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, blew his nose, and mopped his face. He let out a sob, then went on, “Last winter I published a cartoon in the Lüda Daily criticizing the unhealthy tendency in society, particularly about housing assignments. After the plant’s leaders saw it in the newspaper, the Party secretary, Liu Shu, and the director, Ma Gong, began persecuting me. They called me a ‘lunatic’ at a general staff meeting and had my half year’s bonus deducted. They said I had slung mud on the plant’s face. From then on, they’ve seized every opportunity to oppress me. They beat me in their office and kicked my private parts at a conference. My entire family has suffered from their abuse of power.”
He had to stop to catch his breath, since his sobbing had grown uncontrollable. A few of the editorial staff came over to listen to his story. Among them, of course, was Peina.
Bin continued to talk while tears streamed down his cheeks. Never had he been so heartbroken and so full of misery, as though a tap in him were broken and nothing could stop the fountains flowing down his face.
While he was talking about the leaders’ evil deeds, all the misfortunes that had happened to him in the past arose in his mind: the hunger in the early 1960s, when he often cried for a genuine corn cake because everybody in the family had to eat wild herbs and elm bark; the death of his mother, drowned in a flood; his right leg broken in a sandpit in elementary school (for that, he was rejected by the drafting center and couldn’t fulfill the ideal of his youth — to become a colonel or a general, a man well versed in both arms and letters); his having to repeat the fourth grade because he had flunked math; the two hundred yuan, half of the Shaos’ savings, stolen from his pocket when he visited Shenyang City to see an art exhibition; his elder brother blown to pieces by a land mine in a militia drill; the death of his firstborn, a boy — a loss that had cut his family line …
Oh, life was an ocean of misery. There was no way to get out of the suffering except death. But he couldn’t do that, not because he was a coward but because he had to take care of his family. It took more courage to live than to die.
His sobbing grew louder and louder and gradually turned into wailing, and his words became unclear. Nonetheless, the emotion he showed was so powerful that the good souls around him were deeply touched. One short young man poured a cup of black tea for Bin; the slim receptionist couldn’t control her tears and wiped her eyes with pink toilet tissue. Though no longer able to speak coherently, Bin was absolutely fantastic, making the entire editorial staff gather around him, sighing and cursing the petty bureaucrats, and eventually he moved several women and an old man to weep with him. Intuitively Bin knew these were good people and would help him; they were able to weep simply because he, a stranger, was weeping painfully. Their hearts were pure and generous.
At last the editor in chief stood up and walked around the desk. “Comrade Shao Bin,” he said amiably, placing his hand on Bin’s shoulder, “please don’t be too emotional. It will hurt your health. I promise that we’ll study your material carefully and respond to it as soon as possible.”