Hedging, the old woman wiped her hands incessantly on her apron, then finally said that he was not in. He suspected that she was Fang's wife, so, with a smile, he explained that he was the son of Fang's old friend so-and-so, and that he had come to visit his old uncle. The old woman quietly exclaimed, then took him to a door. She opened it to let him in, then brought tea and invited him to sit down. She told him her husband was working in the vegetable garden and that she would fetch him right away.
The old man came in with a hoe and placed it behind the door.
His one droopy eyelid was twitching, and a few sparse strands of white hair sprouted from the sides of his shiny head. Addressing him as Uncle Fang, he again explained that he was the son of such-and-such a person, and conveyed his father's regards.
The old man nodded, his droopy eyelid twitching, as he looked at him for a long time before slowly saying, "I remember, I remember, I remember… My old colleague, my old friend… How is your father?"
"He's all right."
"Ah, it's good to know he's all right, it's good to know he's all right!"
After chatting awhile, he said he was in trouble, or, rather, that he might be in trouble. It had to do with his father's having sold a gun.
The old man lowered his head to look for something, then took his cup in his trembling hands. He said he didn't want the old man to testify, but only wanted him to tell him what had happened. "Did my father ever get you to sell a gun for him?"
He stressed the word "sell" and said nothing about the old man having bought it. The old man put down his cup. His hands stopped shaking, and he went on to say, "This did take place, but it was decades ago, during the War of Resistance, when we were refugees; there was chaos and fighting in those times, and we had to protect ourselves from bandits. We had worked many years in the bank and had some savings, but, as banknotes depreciated, we converted our savings into gold and silver jewelry. We wore this on our persons, and carried a gun just in case."
He said his father had told him all this, but that was not the problem. The problem was that what had happened to the gun was never resolved, and it had been entered into his file that his father had hidden a gun. He said this as calmly as he could.
"This is hard to believe!" The old man sighed. "People from your father's work unit also came to investigate. It's hard to believe that it's also causing trouble for you."
"It hasn't yet, but it could, and I have to think of how to cope if something does flare up."
He explained again that he had not come to investigate, and put on a smile to put the old man at ease.
"It was I who bought the gun," the old man finally said.
"But my father said he got you to sell it for him-"
"But who did I sell it to?" the old man asked.
"My father didn't say," he said.
"No, it was I who bought the gun," the old man said.
"Does he know?"
"Of course he knows. Later on, I threw it into the river."
"Does he know?"
"How could he have known? By then, it was after Liberation, and there was no social unrest, so why would a person keep something like that? I secretly threw it into the river one night…"
There was nothing he could say to this.
"But why did your father have to bring it up? He's a trouble-maker! " The old man was blaming his father.
"If he knew that you had thrown it into the river…" he tried to defend his father.
"The problem is, he's just too naive!"
"He could also have thought the gun was still around and was afraid that if it was found and the owner traced-"
He wanted to defend his father, but his father had, in fact, made the report and had also implicated this old man. It was his father who was to blame.
"It's hard to believe, it's hard to believe…" The old man sighed, again and again. "Who would have thought something that happened over thirty years ago-before you were even born-would go from your father's file into your file!"
This gun at the bottom of the river must have rusted away to nothing and no longer existed, but undoubtedly remained on this retired old man's file, he thought but did not say. Changing the topic, he said, "Uncle Fang, you don't have any children, do you?"
"No." The old man sighed but said nothing.
The old man had forgotten that he had wanted him as a godchild. Luckily; otherwise he would have been as heavy-hearted as his own father.
"If you want to come and investigate further-" the old man said.
"That won't be necessary," he cut the old man short. He no longer felt the same as he did prior to this visit: there was no sense in blaming either this old man or his father.
"I'm already nearing the end of my life. Just finish listening to me," the old man insisted.
"The thing no longer exists, does it? Surely it has totally rusted away?" He stared at the old man.
The old man's mouth opened wide, showing a few sparse teeth, as he burst into loud laughter. A tear fell from his droopy eyelid.
The old man and his wife began preparing food and suggested that he stay for a meal. But, saying he had to get back to the city to return his bicycle then catch the night train, he firmly declined.
Uncle Fang saw him out of the building to the main road. Waving him off, he said to convey regards to his father, then said, "Take care! Take care!"
He got on his bicycle. When he looked back and could no longer see the old man, he suddenly thought: I've gone to all this trouble, but what fiickin' use is it going to be?
26
So you can, in fact, turn back to look at him, that unfilial son of a doomed family, a family that was not destitute but by no means rich, a family that was in-between being proletarian and capitalist. Born in the old world but growing up in the new society, he somewhat superstitiously believed in revolution, then from half-believing and half-doubting, he rebelled. However, he grew weary of the futility of rebelling, then discovered that it was nothing more than a toy cooked up by politics, so he refused to be a foot soldier or make any more sacrifices. But escape was not an option. He was forced to don a mask and somehow got along by losing himself in the crowd.
Thus he became a member of the two-faced faction, and wore a mask that he put on when he went out, like putting up an umbrella when it rained. Back home, behind the closed door, where he wouldn't be seen, he took off the mask to have a break. Worn too long, the mask would stick to the face, fuse with the flesh and the nerves, and he would not be able to remove it. It should be noted that this condition was prevalent everywhere around him.
His real face only came into existence later on, when, finally, he Was able to take off the mask. But taking it off was not an easy matter, because the face and the facial nerves had become stiff from wearing the mask, and it took much effort to laugh with joy or to grimace with pain.
He was probably born a rebel; not a rebel with a clear objective, direction, or ideology, but simply one with a basic instinct for self-preservation. Later on, when he realized that his act of rebellion was being orchestrated, it was already too late.
From then on, he was devoid of ideals, but he did not want others to spend time thinking them up for him. He would not be able to pay for them, and he was afraid of being duped again. He no longer daydreamed, so he did not need to use fancy words to deceive others or himself. He no longer entertained any illusions whatsoever about people and the world.
He did not want comrades, and did not want to make plans with anyone to achieve goals, so there was no need to seize power. All that was too painful, and the endless struggles were psychologically draining. It was a blessing to be able to avoid big families and organized groups.