The thought came to me that he must have been in a dormitory or a guesthouse, since every home would have a chamber pot or a toilet.
“I can see you,” he piped, then grinned, baring his tobacco-stained teeth.
Who was the woman he was talking to? She might not be his wife, because the Yangs had a toilet in their apartment, which she could use at night. When did this happen? Long ago?
Then I began to revise my reasoning, since it was entirely possible that he and his wife had stayed a night somewhere other than their home and had had to resort to a washbasin in place of a chamber pot.
“My goodness,” Mr. Yang said with increasing relish, “how I adore your hips. Gorgeous, like two large loaves of bread fresh from a steamer.” He paused, chuckling, then went on, “Yes, I’m shameless, can’t help it, shameless and crazy. Come on, give me one on the mouth.”
I was all ears, but his voice was dwindling, though he still smiled mysteriously. I listened for another minute without understanding a thing, so I returned to my textbook.
But soon he started moaning. His voice suggested a sheep bleating and jarred on my nerves. In my heart I couldn’t help but blame him: Come on, stop speaking in riddles. If you want to say something, spill it out. I have to work. If I flunk the exams, I won’t be able to go to Beijing and taste Meimei’s nipples there.
To my astonishment, he shouted without opening his eyes, “Forget it! I know you just want to ruin me.”
I held my breath, wondering what this was about. He went on angrily, “I have no savings. Even if you kill me, I cannot come up with that kind of money.” After a pause, he resumed, “I never knew you were so sneaky. Why did you encourage me to go abroad in the first place? You set a trap for me, didn’t you? Now go away. I cannot bear the sight of you.”
Undoubtedly he was talking about the $1,800 he had spent. Weiya was right — the university must indeed have demanded that he pay the money back. But who was he talking to? A school official? That seemed implausible, because his familiar tone of voice indicated that he knew the person quite well. According to Weiya’s account, it was Secretary Peng who had pressed him for the money. The unidentified person could be she, but how had she set a trap for him? Ignorant and almost illiterate, she couldn’t possibly have known how a Canadian conference operated and that Mr. Yang, though already taken off the panel, would go to North America merely for sight-seeing. This made no sense to me.
“Let me tell you, I shall never knuckle under to you,” he sneered. His face, flushing, expanded with rage while his lips turned blue and sweat beaded on his cheeks. Never had I seen him so angry. Could he be arguing with Secretary Peng? I wasn’t sure. He had always been polite to her, at least in appearance, though I knew he despised her at heart. The words he had just uttered sounded more like something he would spit in Professor Song’s face. Could Song be the schemer?
Mr. Yang interrupted my thoughts, declaring in a raspy voice, “Nobody can destroy my soul!”
I was perplexed. This seemed irrelevant to what had gone before. Where was he now? With the same person?
Then his face began twisting, his stout nose red and crinkled. He looked in pain, groaning, “Oh, don’t hurt my children, please! Don’t separate them! I beg you to leave them alone.” He began sniveling, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. His flabby chin kept shaking as if stung by something. Yet I couldn’t tell whether he was really heartbroken or just shamming.
This was crazy, beyond me. Having only one child, why did he mention his children and beg his tormentor not to separate them? Apparently he had mixed things up. On second thought I wondered if he had another daughter or a son I didn’t know of, in other words, an illegitimate one. This was hardly plausible. To my knowledge, Meimei had always been her parents’ only child.
Now Mr. Yang was wailing, tears wetting his cheeks. I went over and waved my hand before his glazed eyes, which gave no response. He seemed at another place, dealing with a different person. He cried out, “I don’t want a full professorship anymore! Give it to anyone you like. I don’t need a larger apartment either, I’m completely satisfied with what I have. Oh, please don’t be so mean! Have mercy! I’ve a family to keep. Don’t separate my children. For heaven’s sake, can’t you leave me alone?” He had to stop to catch his breath. With a warm towel I wiped his face, which went on shaking.
Although he sounded stubborn and grief-stricken, he now looked obsequious, as if making an effort to smile ingratiatingly. His jaw muscles were tight, trembling. He resumed speaking, but his voice grew weaker and weaker, his words again unintelligible. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t figure out anything. Meanwhile, the look on his face became more and more fawning. He smiled and moaned alternately. Never had I seen such an eerie face, which raised goose bumps on my forearms.
I was confused and upset. When I took over from Banping, I had expected a relatively quiet afternoon, like the day before, so that I could review a few chapters of the textbook, but again Mr. Yang spoiled my plan. My desire for work was all gone. Stretched out on the wicker chair, I closed my eyes and gave free rein to my thoughts about his secret life.
6
I was still gloomy after dinner. Having no desire to study, I didn’t go to Mr. Yang’s office as I had planned, and instead returned to the dormitory. Fortunately on my bed was a letter from Meimei. I brushed a winged ant off my sheet, lay down, and opened the envelope. She obviously hadn’t received my letter about her father’s condition yet. She said:
April 19, 1989
Dear Jian,
How is everything? Have you quit smoking? Each year four million people die of smoking-related diseases in our country. Please follow my advice and quit. You know I cannot stand the smell of tobacco.
It’s getting hot in Beijing, and sometimes windy and dusty. My school is kind of chaotic at this moment, because every day thousands of students take to the streets to demonstrate against official corruption. They’re especially angry at the top leaders’ children who have made fortunes by taking advantage of their offices and connections. Many students are talking about marching to Tiananmen Square. I have heard that this is a joint effort of the students from several colleges in Beijing. They demand rapid political reform and that the government take drastic measures to stop corruption and inflation. I don’t believe their demonstrations can change anything, so up to now I have avoided participating. I am going to take the exams in less than five weeks. For the time being, nothing is more important to me than getting ready for them.
How is your preparation going? If you run into any difficulty, feel free to ask my dad for help. Try to concentrate on foreign languages and politics. These are the areas where people tend to stumble. Of course you know this, and I have more confidence in you than in myself. You will definitely score high points in all the subjects. You’re one of the best rising scholars, as my dad often says.
I guess you haven’t yet figured out what I like most about you. I won’t tell you now, but I may in the future. I have enclosed my kisses and hugs. Take care.
Yours,
Meimei
I had heard of the students’ demonstrations in Beijing, but hadn’t thought they would reach such a large scale. These days I rarely listened to the Voice of America or the BBC. My roommate Mantao, who had followed the news, often mentioned the demonstrations. But every evening, after dinner, I would spend several hours in Mr. Yang’s office reviewing textbooks; when I came back, my roommates would have gone to sleep, so we seldom talked. I had to devote myself to the preparation for the Ph.D. exams. Such a degree would eventually place me among the top literary scholars in China. Currently there were only a few thousand doctoral students in the whole country, and less than ten percent of them were in the humanities.