However, the loss of the bonus also upset him. At the least it meant they would be hard up by New Year’s. A self-criticism in front of the whole plant was out of the question; a letter to the newspaper would be impracticable as well. Apart from impairing his dignity, to retract what he had published would wreck his career as an artist, and he would be regarded as a liar by the editors of the newspapers and magazines with which he had connections. But if he didn’t meet the demands announced by Director Ma, the leaders would surely have the bonus deducted from his pay. It was obvious he had no way to stop them from doing that, so he decided to let it be. What else could they do to him? Hardly anything. They couldn’t fire him, because he was a permanent worker in a state enterprise and didn’t have to renew his contract as a temporary worker would. As long as his job was secure, he shouldn’t worry too much. Of course, from now on they would make things difficult for him, but he wasn’t a soft egg, easy to crush.
Despite his tough reasoning, Bin regretted having sent out the cartoon that had cost him a sum larger than two months’ wages. By contrast, from the Lüda Daily he had received only a Worker-Peasant fountain pen and a canvas satchel, which came in a parcel together with two copies of the newspaper. In all, they were worth about five yuan. If only Meilan had changed her mind and stopped him when she had seen the cartoon that morning. If only he had known of the price in advance. Too late now; it was impossible to recover the water thrown on the ground.
Now that he was already in the thick of the fight, he had best engage the enemy. The most effective strategy he could think of was to report them to the commune leaders. Yes, if the devil expanded a foot, the Buddha would grow a yard. He was going to expose the two petty officials, disgrace them, and have them investigated and punished by their superiors.
A strong sense of justice and civil duty rose in him. An upright man ought to plead in the name of the people. He believed he was going to voice not only his own discontent and indignation but also the oppressed brothers’ and sisters’. Yes, he wanted to speak for all the workers in the plant.
For two weeks Bin put aside reading and painting and concentrated on writing a lengthy letter of accusation to Yang Chen, who was the Party secretary of the commune and Liu’s and Ma’s immediate superior. Though it didn’t own the plant, the commune supervised it on behalf of the state. So Yang should be the first person with whom to lodge such an accusation. Every night Bin worked on the letter into the small hours.
Through many years’ persevering effort, he had cultivated a scholarly habit — writing everything in brush, whether it was a title for his painting or a grocery list, unless he was pressed for time and had to resort to a pen. He had been extremely careful about his handwriting; according to the instructions of ancient masters, handwriting is something like the writer’s looks. No, more than looks, it displays his taste, cultivation, respiratory rhythm, mental state, spiritual aspiration, manly strength, and, most important of all, his moral character. Once on paper, everything must be brilliant and dignified, even a dot. Therefore Bin had always been conscientious about his calligraphy.
As a budding calligrapher of sorts, he was patient, ambitious, and diligent. He enjoyed seeing his own words take shape on paper and loved the fragrance of his authentic ink stick, whose brand was always the same: Dearer Than Gold.
The letter of accusation was completed. All together it consisted of thirty pages, about eight thousand words, every one of which was written in the meticulous style of Little Flies. Bin listed the crimes committed by the two leaders in the past few years, including not giving him a raise the year before on the grounds that he hadn’t shown enough respect for them; persecuting him because he was more artistic and creative than others; feasting at the plant’s cost whenever an important visitor arrived (Secretary Liu had once got so drunk that he had wet both his pants and a sofa in the conference room); accepting a lot of bribes from the poor workers and staff; using the plant’s trucks to transport coal, vegetables, furniture, bricks, and sand to their homes; allowing their wives to meddle with administrative affairs; at every Spring Festival, allotting themselves an extra sack of polished rice, ten pounds of peanut oil, a crate of liquor (sixteen bottles), a hamper of apples, a block of frozen ribbonfish (fifty pounds), and two large bundles of potato noodles.
Of course, the most atrocious crime they had perpetrated in the plant was to suppress different opinions and try to get rid of the dissidents. The letter concluded with these questions:
Who are the masters of this plant? The workers or the two corrupt leaders? Where is their Communist conscience? Why are they more vicious and more avaricious than landowners and capitalists in the old China? Should they still remain in the Party? Are we, the common workers, supposed to trust the parasites like Liu Shu and Ma Gong? As a citizen of a great socialist country, do I still have the right to speak up for justice and democracy?
Bin had been wondering whether he should mention that there must have been an affair between Liu Shu and Hou Nina, but he was uncertain how to discuss the problem of Liu’s lifestyle.
The summer before last, by chance he had seen Nina doing the splits in the secretary’s office. One afternoon Bin went there to hand in his application for the Party membership. At the door he heard a female voice tittering inside, so he stopped to see what was happening. Through a crack in the door, he saw Nina spreading her legs on the floor; her body was sinking lower and lower while her lips bunched together as though she was in pain. Yet she was smiling, her eyes blinking. With her pink skirt wrapped around her waist, she put both hands on her thighs to force them to touch the floor. Bin thought Liu would move over and do something unusual — make a pass or pinch her thigh or hip, but the secretary didn’t budge, merely chuckled and said, “Get up, girl. Don’t hurt yourself. Enough.” He was drinking tea and cracking spiced pumpkin seeds.
“See, see I still can do it!” she cried, her entire legs on the cement floor. Her chin was thrown up at Liu.
Bin knocked at the door, and without waiting he went in. His intrusion startled them; they both stood up.
“What do you want?” Liu asked.
“I came to hand in my application for Party membership, Secretary Liu.” Bin put the writing on the desk.
“All right, I’ll read it.” Liu looked disconcerted.
Bin turned back to the door, giving Nina a long stare that revealed his knowledge of what had just happened. He went out without a word.
Now, Bin suspected Liu had probably been so mean to him because he had spoiled his luck with Nina that day. How he regretted that he had not witnessed the whole episode. If only he had waited outside a little longer to find out the true relationship between them. Then he would have possessed firsthand evidence. O Impatience, the enemy of any achievement, and the sin of sins. All he could do now was add a postscript to the accusation, saying he believed there must have been an affair between the two. He asked the superiors to investigate.
After breakfast the next morning, he sealed the letter and cycled to the Commune Administration at the corner of Bank and Main streets to deliver it personally, also to save postage. Secretary Yang hadn’t arrived yet. After waiting ten minutes to no avail, Bin left the letter with Yang’s aide, Dong Cai, a slim, middle-aged man with a toothy face, wearing a green sweater.
“Secretary Yang will read it as soon as he has time,” Dong assured him with a grin, flicking the Grape cigarette Bin had given him.
“Thanks for the help. Thanks,” Bin said with a bow.