“I killed him! I’m the number-one tiger-fighter!” Huping shouted. With his fists balled at his flanks, he began laughing huskily and stamping his feet.
People ran up to him and tried to calm him down. But he wouldn’t stop laughing. “I killed him! I killed him!” he yelled, his eyes ablaze.
The medic poured some water into the bowl and took out a sedative tablet. He made Huping take the medicine.
“Good wine, good wine!” Huping said after drinking the water. He wiped his lips with his forearm.
Then, to our astonishment, he burst out singing like a hero in a revolutionary model opera:
My spirit rushing toward the Milky Way,
With my determination and bravery
I shall eradicate every vermin from earth. .
A young woman snickered. Two men clutched Huping’s arms and dragged him away while he was babbling about plucking out the tiger’s heart, liver, and lungs. They put him into the back of a truck.
“He’s punch-drunk,” said Secretary Feng. “Tough job — I don’t blame him.”
The tiger was lifted back into its cage. Director Yu wasn’t happy about the botched scene. According to the classic story, which our audience would know well, the hero is supposed to ride the tiger for a while, bring it down, and punch its head hundreds of times until it breathes its last. The scene we had just shot missed the final struggle, so we would have to try again.
But Huping was in no condition to work. For the rest of the day he laughed or giggled at random. Whenever someone came into sight he’d shout, “Hey, I killed the tiger!” We worried about him, so we called in a pedicab and sent him to the hospital for a checkup.
The diagnosis was mild schizophrenia, and the doctor insisted that Huping be hospitalized.
What should we do about the fight scene? Get another tiger-fighter? Not so easy. Where on earth could we find a fellow as handsome and strapping as our Prince? We looked through a pile of movie and TV magazines in the hopes of finding someone who resembled him, but most of the young actors we saw were mere palefaced boys; few had the stature and spirit of a hero.
Somehow the prefecture’s Propaganda Department heard about the governor’s interest in our TV series. Its deputy director phoned, saying we should complete the revision as early as possible. It was already mid-September, and trees were dropping leaves. Soon frost and snow would change the color of the landscape and make it impossible to duplicate the setting.
Because it was unlikely that we would find a substitute for Huping, some people suggested using him again. Quite a few of us opposed this idea; those who supported it didn’t seem to care that a man’s life was at risk. In private, some of us — clerks, assistants, actors — complained about the classic novel that contains the tiger-fighting episode. Why would an author write such a difficult scene? It’s impossible for any man to ride a tiger and then beat it to death bare-handed. The story is a pure fabrication that has misled readers for hundreds of years. It may have been easy for the writer to describe it on paper, but in reality, how could we create such a hero?
Full of anxiety, Director Yu suffered a case of inflamed eyes — they turned into curved slits between red, doughy lids. He’d wear sunglasses whenever he went out of the office building. He told us, “We must finish the scene! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”
One night he even dreamed he himself wrestled the tiger to the ground, and his elbow inflicted a bruise on his wife’s chest.
We were worried, too. Our company couldn’t afford to feed the tiger for long; besides, we had no place to shelter it for the coming winter.
The following week, Secretary Feng held a staff meeting with us. We discussed the predicament at some length. Gradually it became clear that if we couldn’t find a substitute, we might have to use Huping again. The proponents of this idea argued their position logically and convinced us, its opponents, that this was the only way to get the job done.
At the end of the meeting, Director Yu stressed that this time everything had to be accurately designed and calculated. The tranquilizer dart should carry a smaller dose so that the tiger would remain on its feet long enough for our hero to ride it a while. Also, we would have to be more careful not to let the beast hurt him.
To our relief, when the leaders broached the plan with Huping, he eagerly agreed to fight the tiger again. He said that he’d live up to their expectations and that he felt fine now, ready for work. “I’m a tiger-fighter,” he declared. His voice was quite hoarse, and his eyes glittered.
“Yes, you are,” agreed Secretary Feng. “All the provincial leaders are watching you, Huping. Try to do a good job this time.”
“I shall.”
So we trucked the tiger to the site the next morning. The weather happened to be similar to that of the previous time: a little overcast, the sun peeking through the gray clouds now and then. I identified the elm and the spot where the fight had taken place before. Huping sat on a boulder with a short cudgel across his naked back while the medic was massaging his shoulders. After a tranquilizer dart was shot into the tiger’s thigh, Huping rose to his feet and downed a bowl of White Flame in two gulps.
Director Yu went over to give him instructions, saying, “Don’t lose your head. When I shout, ‘On the tiger!’ you get on its back, ride it for a while, then bring it down. Until it stops moving, keep punching its head.”
“All right.” Huping nodded, his gaze fixed on the caged animal.
In the distance, on the hillside, a few cows were grazing, the west wind occasionally blowing their voices to us.
The tiger was let out. It pranced around, bursting with life. It opened its mouth threateningly. It began eyeing the distant cows.
“Roll the camera!” shouted Director Yu.
As Huping was approaching the tiger, it growled and rushed toward him. Our hero seemed stunned. He stopped and raised the cudgel, but the beast just pounced on him and pawed at his shoulder. With a heartrending cry, Huping dropped his weapon and ran toward us. The tiger followed, but having been caged for weeks, it couldn’t run fast. We scattered in every direction, and even the camera crew deserted their equipment. Huping jumped, caught a limb of the elm, and climbed up the tree. The animal leaped and ripped off Huping’s left boot, and instantly a patch of blood appeared on his white sock.
“Save me!” he yelled, climbing higher. The beast was pacing below the tree, snarling and roaring.
“Give it another shot!” Director Yu cried.
Another dart hit the tiger’s shoulder. In no time it started tottering, moving zigzag under the elm.
We watched fearfully while Huping yelled for help. He was so piteous.
The tiger fell. Director Yu was outraged and couldn’t help calling Huping names. Two men quietly carried the cage over to the motionless animal.
“Idiot!” Director Yu cursed.
The medic wiggled his fingers at Huping. “Come down now, let me dress your foot.”
“No.”
“The tiger’s gone,” a woman said to him.
“Help me!” he yelled.
“It can’t hurt you anymore.”
“Shoot him!”
No matter how many comforting words we used, he wouldn’t come down from the tree. He squatted up there, weeping like a small boy. The crotch of his pants was wet.
We couldn’t wait for him like this forever. So Secretary Feng, his face puffy and glum, said to a man, “Give him a shot, not too strong.”
From a range of five feet a dart was fired into Huping’s right buttock.
“Ow!” he cried.
A few men assembled under the elm to catch him, but he didn’t fall. As the drug began affecting him, he turned to embrace the tree trunk and began descending slowly. A moment later the men grabbed his arms and legs and carried him away.