The secret investigation of Bin’s family background and recent activities was completed. To the leaders’ dismay, nothing substantial was dug up. Bin’s father had been a beggar in the old China for over thirty years, all the relatives had been poor peasants, and none had ever become a target in a political movement. In this respect Bin was clean like a piece of blank paper. As for Bin himself, only a few small things were found. Two years before, when he was repairing an air blower in the plant’s dining center, he had eaten four raw eggs on the sly. Later he was criticized for that, and he paid for the eggs and turned in a twelve-page self-criticism, which was still kept in his file. This case had been closed, however, and was of little use now except for proving that he wasn’t an honest man. His indecency was further verified by his submitting a false voucher to Finance. The winter before, he had been sent to Ox Village to help install a water pump; he had stayed there for only two days, but he had applied for three days’ reimbursement, receiving sixty fen more than he should have. Though the money was little, it showed he couldn’t be trusted, especially when money was involved. His dishonesty could be attested to further by another incident: without telling anybody, Bin had once taken home a plant-owned book, Bicycle Repairs. Not until a fellow worker saw it in his home two months later did he bring back this piece of public property. By then, Maintenance had already purchased a new copy of the book. If a man had stolen fruit, no doubt he would steal an orchard when the opportunity turned up.
All these indecencies, however, were not weighty enough to bring him down. In their report to Secretary Yang, in addition to describing the defects in Bin’s character, the leaders had to mention the artistic works he had published and the two awards his paintings had won. It’s common sense that one glamorous quality can eclipse a dozen slight blemishes. Both Liu and Ma felt that in a way they’d done Bin a favor in having the report prepared, because Secretary Yang would be more impressed by his talent and energy than interested in those trifles. If so, they might indeed create an opportunity for him. To prevent that from happening, they stressed the point that he suffered from a mental disorder and was an inefficient, unreliable worker.
The cartoon appeared in The Workers’ Daily two weeks later. Bin was amazed that it had come out so soon; on second thought, he realized the editors would surely have wanted to publish it before the Spring Festival so as to combat the unhealthy wind in society.
Indeed the cartoon was timely enough to ruin the leaders’ festive mood. After they saw it, Liu and Ma sent for Bin and planned to teach him a bloody lesson, at least making him unable to enjoy the holiday. They waited and waited, but Bin never showed up.
By no means would Bin go to their offices alone. What if they beat him black and blue? He mustn’t take such a risk, having himself hurt before the festival. He wasn’t that stupid and could see through them. According to Sun Tzu’s Art of War, among the thirty-six stratagems the most important one is to decamp in time. Yes, he had best go home as soon as possible. Damn the two idiots, they thought he didn’t know about the knives up their sleeves. If they wanted to take revenge, they had better get hold of him first.
He put away his files and claw hammer, took off the work suit and oversleeves, and left for the bicycle shed. After aligning the front wheel of his National Defense with its head tube, he pedaled away without indulging in the habit of ringing the bell on the handlebar. At the entrance of the plant, he got off the bicycle and stuck a copy of the cartoon on the notice board with a piece of friction tape.
Immediately a score of workers gathered there, looking at it and talking noisily. A middle-aged woman said, “No wonder Liu Shu is so fat. Stuffed with others’ meat and fish.”
“No, without sweat and blood,” an old man corrected her.
“Who gave them Maotai?”
“That must’ve cost a fortune. Who’s so rich?”
“Wow! So many pineapples.”
In the secretary’s office the two leaders had not yet recovered from the shock delivered by the cartoon. Now all of China knew they were two corrupt officials, sucking people’s blood and taking bribes. This was sheer calumny, and Shao Bin would have to pay for it. Without delay they began gathering the facts needed for proving their innocence. Neither of them had ever received garlic from anybody; in fact, Ma hated garlic, often saying he would have banned the plant if he were a god, and he wouldn’t allow his wife to use it even when she cooked fish. Nor had they ever eaten a fresh pineapple, which was an exotic southern fruit. As for Maotai, it was impossible for either of them to obtain a bottle here; if you searched all of Dismount Fort, you wouldn’t be able to find one. Never had Secretary Liu tasted a drop of that liquor, and he swore he had only heard of it, whereas Ma had once drunk two glasses of it in Changchun City, where he had played basketball. That was twenty years before. Nowadays there was a shortage of everything except for human beings; nobody here could possibly have the finest Chinese liquor. It was said that only at a state banquet was Maotai served, and that most of the produce of the winery was exported to Japan and South Asia. Ah, those foreigners, they always have the best Chinese stuff!
“Damn the mad dog!” Liu cursed. “If I’d ever taken a drop of Maotai, I wouldn’t feel so wronged.”
“Forget about Maotai,” Ma said. “It tastes similar to West Phoenix, it’s just a name. What should we do about him now? Wait until the festival is over?”
“No way.”
They thought of sending a group of men to smash Bin’s home, breaking all the pots, basins, bowls, and plates, but the Shaos lived in the department store’s dormitory, which had an entrance guard on duty day and night. And it was unwise to do that, because the other residents would witness the scene. Besides, Bin’s wife had a lot of relatives in the villages; those peasants wouldn’t think twice about killing if they came to avenge her. How about asking the town police to detain Bin for the holiday season? This didn’t seem practicable either. They heard that the young policeman Shen Li was also an amateur painter and had once taken lessons from Bin. Undoubtedly, the student would release the teacher, since by custom you ought to regard your teacher as a lifelong father, even if he had taught you just one day. Stop paying him his wages? There was no rule that allowed them to do so, unless he was a criminal.
They were still talking when Bao, the union chairman, rushed in and said loudly, “Secretary Liu and Director Ma, the plant is upside down. Lots of people are at the notice board, looking at the picture. They want to know who gave you Maotai.”
“What?” Liu stood up, wringing his hands. “Screw their mothers!”
“Let’s go have a look,” Ma said.
They went to the front entrance, where about seventy workers gathered, cursing and chatting. It was snowing, the gray ground becoming white. At the sight of the leaders, the crowd quieted down. Both Liu and Ma could feel the pressure of the silence, which seemed to demand that they confess everything on the spot. Liu went up the brick steps at the front of Guard’s Office, and he turned around to face the workers. For some reason he felt like laughing, but he restrained himself. A snowflake landed on his nose; though tickled by it, he didn’t wipe it off. Ma limped over and joined him, standing one step lower.
“Comrades,” Liu shouted, then stopped to clear his throat. “Comrades, don’t take this drawing seriously. Shao Bin is a lunatic and always imagines things. Director Ma can’t stand the smell of garlic. You all know that. How could he take a braid of garlic as a gift?”