“Yes, we will help you,” a few voices said in unison.
Bin tried to stop weeping and smile some. Their words soothed his scorched heart like a gurgling spring. Not until now did he remember that he had been putting on a show. Somehow he had lost himself altogether in the performance and had unconsciously entered into the realm of self-oblivion — a complete union with a character or an object, which he realized was the ideal state of artistic achievement, dwelled upon by many ancient masters throughout the history of Chinese arts. Again true artistic spirit had taken him unawares.
Still dazed by his emotional intensity, Bin managed to rise to his feet and picked up the army satchel. His handkerchief fell on the floor.
“Thank you, my good comrade,” he mumbled, holding out his hand to Mr. Wang, who took it into his own. Bin said, “We’re all looking forward to hearing from you. I’ll tell the folks in the countryside that the leaders and comrades in Beijing are upright and honest, and they’ve promised to help us restore justice.”
“Yes, we will,” Peina put in.
Bin touched the envelope on the desk and said to the editor in chief, “All the evidence and material you need are in this. Thanks, thanks.” He turned to shake hands with several other men and women, then moved to the door and waved good-bye.
Peina picked up the handkerchief from under the chair and said, “He dropped this.” She followed Bin out, crying loudly, “Comrade, wait a minute.”
Once in the stairwell, she whispered to him excitedly, “You’re great. It was spectacular! You should study the performing arts; I’m sure you’d become a movie star someday. Anyway, tell my nephew everything is all right and I’ll try my best.”
“Thank you, I will.” Bin smiled, his temples still pounding.
They shook hands. Peina said, “I must go now. Good-bye.” She turned back to the office.
It was past ten. Bin took a bus directly to the train station. The bus reeked of sweat, soap, toothpaste, cologne, medicinal herbs. So many passengers crowded into it that Bin soon found himself huffing and puffing. This must have been caused also by the female bodies pressing around him, especially that of a tall young woman from behind. She looked like a college student and a basketball player, with bobbed hair and a tanned face. Her hips in jeans rubbed the small of Bin’s back as the bus jolted along. Bin’s heart began galloping, though the bus was crawling like an oxcart. He thought he wouldn’t mind riding this way for an hour or two, receiving this special massage.
But gradually his mind wandered in another direction. He imagined that this bus, so jam-packed, could be a vivid illustration of the concept of saturation, which he had learned from the chemistry textbook he had studied briefly three months before: If one more person squeezed in from the front door of the bus, a passenger on the bus would surely fall out of its rear door. Yes, this was saturation, a good human example.
In spite of the frantic traffic, Bin was longing to visit the Great Wall, the Forbidden City (which was said to have housed a lot of famous paintings), the Revolutionary Museum, the Summer Palace, and Chairman Mao’s Mausoleum in Tiananmen Square, which had recently opened to the public. But he had to hurry back home, since his friends were anxiously awaiting him. He was to take the earliest train back to Gold County.
Fourteen
SEEING HER HUSBAND BACK, Meilan shed joyful tears and said she had been afraid that Secretary Yang might have had him apprehended or assassinated in the capital.
What a bizarre idea, Bin thought. Even if Yang lorded over this commune and his flunkies could do whatever they liked here, they could hardly find their bearings in Beijing, to say nothing of abducting others. Yet Meilan’s fear proved her love for him, so he was pleased.
Though having planned to go to work that morning, Bin was so exhausted that he soon fell asleep. His wife didn’t wake him when she left for work; he snored nonstop for five hours.
Toward noon, when he woke, a note from Secretary Liu was lying beside him, saying that if Bin had been struck by diarrhea, as the medical certificate indicated, he should have been bedridden, unable to fool around in the county town, fanning up evil winds. Apparently he was well and didn’t have to go to the latrine incessantly, so Liu ordered him to show up at work without delay.
Bin was too sleepy to worry about the note, which was dated the day before. He resumed snoring, his palm on his daughter’s pillow.
During her lunch break, Meilan came back and cooked for Bin. Tired out, he didn’t want to eat the dough-drop soup, and he told her he had to go to the plant.
Before leaving, he let her do cupping on him. She smeared a few drops of cold water on the hollow below his Adam’s apple, lighted a scrap of paper with a match, dropped the fire into an empty jam jar, and pressed the “cup” tightly on the wet spot. In a few seconds a swelling rose inside the jar. He gave her a toothy grin, hoping she hadn’t burned him.
“It’s bloody dark,” she said, referring to the swelling.
He couldn’t speak, because the jar tightened his throat. He nodded at her twice.
After the cupping, he pulled on a low-necked T-shirt, so that the round patch on his throat was fully visible, like a gigantic birthmark. This would convince others of his illness, if not the leaders, who would turn a blind eye to his condition anyway. Examining the purple patch with a pocket mirror, Bin believed the treatment was timely. He obviously had too much poisonous fire in him and needed it to be sucked out. He put away the mirror and set off for the plant.
When Bin arrived at Maintenance, Hsiao greeted him, waving a pair of greasy gloves, and told him bluntly, “The leaders think the medical certificate is a fake. They want to have these days deducted from your wages.” Hsiao’s tone, however, wavered as he noticed Bin’s sick face and the dark patch on his throat.
Anger surged in Bin, but he didn’t show it. He merely said, “Damn their mothers.”
Hsiao assigned him to go to the lab and repair a ventilator. On his way there, Bin was wondering whether he should drop in on the leaders. For the three days’ absence he might lose a little more than four yuan, but he needed the money badly, since he had already made up his mind to repay Jiang Ping for the fare. Besides, the deduction would hurt his name; he couldn’t afford to let the whole plant think of him as a malingerer. He was certain that the leaders would publicize this and make his illness look like it came from mental or moral deterioration. There was also a strategic concern here. He was unsure whether or not the leaders knew of his trip; therefore he felt he should go and find out. Without entering a tiger’s den, one couldn’t catch tiger cubs. Yes, he ought to meet them.
Before he turned to the office building, Bin saw Secretary Liu coming out of the garage, with an umbrella under his arm. So Bin went up to him and asked why the leaders refused to acknowledge the sick-leave certificate. Liu said there was no Doctor Sun in the County Central Hospital and Bin had made up the whole thing.
“What?” Bin cried. “You have called the hospital to check on it, haven’t you?”
“It’s unnecessary.” Liu waved his hand as though chasing a mosquito. “I tell you what, people here don’t go to the Central Hospital for a sick-leave note. If you were really sick, you wouldn’t have been able to move around in the county town. Now, tell me what you did there. Why didn’t you stay in bed at home? You must confess everything first.”
“I’ll answer that after you tell me whether you’re positive there’s no Doctor Sun in the hospital. If you haven’t checked, you’d better shut up.”
Liu was taken aback by Bin’s sharp tone of voice. “All right, describe to me what he looks like,” he said and closed his eyes, ready to visualize Doctor Sun.