The Crazed

by Ha Jin

  Now his body was confined to this hospital bed while his mind roamed the empyrean, as though the Christian divine spheres could also admit pagans as long as they had been humble and virtuous in their lives. I kept quiet, not to disturb his hallucinatory journey so that he could enjoy the bliss a little longer.

  I turned a page of my dictionary and resumed reading while his mouth writhed and a smile broke out on his face. From time to time I’d watch him.

  Outside, a siren started screaming. There must be a fire somewhere nearby. I couldn’t tell which direction the siren came from, because the mountain of anthracite outside the window had put me out of my bearings. As the siren squealed louder and louder, Mr. Yang stirred, whispering, “Fire, fire, that’s the holy fire. Burn them, burn those devils!”

  I listened closely. He sighed, “Yes, fire and rose are one.” He opened his eyes and looked around. He noticed me and gazed at my face intently for a moment. Then he made an effort to turn to face the window, but he couldn’t move his left shoulder. I got up and went over.

  “Give me a hand, please,” he said.

  I lifted his back and made him sit up. Supporting his back with my right arm, I grasped the pillows and put them behind him. He seemed eager to talk, so I returned to the chair, ready to give him an ear.

  But before he could start, somebody knocked on the door. I went to answer it. To my surprise, Vice Principal Huang’s white head emerged. Since Mr. Yang was hospitalized, no school official had ever come to see him. The tall vice principal took a step forward, holding a string bag of yellow apples, some of which had russet flecks on them. He wore a double-breasted jacket with peaked lapels, which was too large on him and made his triangular face appear thin and small. “How are you, Comrade Jian Wan?” he asked, his walleyes looking me in the face.

  I was amazed he knew my name. “Fine, thank you for coming,” I said and stepped aside to let him in.

  He went up to Mr. Yang. Although over sixty, he looked well preserved, his waist robust but not rotund, and his legs so thin that he was hipless. He said heartily to my teacher, “How are you doing, Old Yang? Do you feel better?” He patted Mr. Yang’s hand.

  My teacher made no reply. The leader said again, “I came to see you. Look, I brought you some fresh fruit. How are you?” He lifted the apples up and put them on the bedside cabinet.

  “I’m good, won’t die for a couple of hours,” Mr. Yang grunted. I was puzzled by his sullenness, wondering why he showed no respect for the vice principal.

  Huang turned to me and put on a smile, saying, “I’m going to talk with your teacher.” I realized he meant I should make myself scarce, so I walked out and carefully closed the door.

  I loitered in the corridor for a few minutes, then sat down on a long straight-backed bench. I was a bit groggy, my temples aching. The previous night I had pored over a textbook on dialectical materialism and hadn’t gone to bed until 3:00 A.M. Now, eyes closed and arms folded, I soon drifted off to sleep.

  I had a bizarre dream, in which Meimei and I stayed in an inn at a sandy beach. I was sick with a stomachache, lying in bed and shivering all over. Wearing a white cap and a knee-length skirt, Meimei was cooking crucian carp soup for me on a small alcohol stove we had brought along. Five of its six wicks were afire, hissing softly as the flames licked the bottom of a stainless steel pot. Turning over the fat fish gingerly with a spatula, Meimei crooned a folk song in a soothing voice. Outside, on the bulging sea, a couple of gray sails glided almost motionlessly while a conch horn was tooting somewhere on the shore.

  The soup was done. It looked milky and smelled like steamed mussel, but I was too sick to eat it by myself. Meimei tried to feed me with a spoon like a small ladle, which turned out to be too broad for my mouth. She piped into my ear, “Open wide, open wide, my little groom.” But my mouth was too narrow for the spoon, and a few drops of broth spilled on the front of my shirt. Tittering, she said, “You have such a tiny mouth, like a pretty girl’s.”

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t open my mouth wider, as if my lips had been partly sewn together. My tongue went numb and felt like a wooden stick. I was angry at myself, my heart kicking. I told her to put away the bowl and get into bed. She shed her shirt, poplin skirt, and anklets. She was now in red panties and a white cotton bra; a birth-mark the size of a mulberry was under her right breast. Her belly was almost flat; her hips were shapely, concave on the side, each hollow resembling a giant dimple. She lay down and nestled against me. As she touched my forehead, I shuddered—her hand was ice-cold.

  “You have a temperature,” she said, and her knees, rather warm, kept rubbing my thigh.

  “I’ll be all right,” I muttered, still shaking.

  “Uncle, please help me,” broke from a voice.

  Both of us froze, listening.

  “Uncle, have pity,” the same childlike voice said again.

  I opened my eyes, only to find a scrawny girl, about four or five years old, standing in the hospital corridor between my leather shoes, her chafed hand patting my knee.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Money.” She opened her pale palm, whose edge was coated with dirt. Her dark eyes were large and fierce, sharpened by hunger or fear.

  I fished some coins out of my pants pocket and gave them to her. Without a word she ran away on her bent legs, her feet in tattered sneakers. Reaching the end of the corridor, she waved her fist and gave the money to a woman, obviously her mother, who shot glances at me. I glared at the sunken-mouthed woman, cursing under my breath, “Bitch.” I felt cheated, as I had thought the child was on her own.

  Not knowing how long I had dozed, I rose to my feet, my right leg still sleeping. I was a little anxious and wondered if the visitor had left, so I hobbled to the door of the sickroom and put my ear to the keyhole. Vice Principal Huang was still in there. He was saying earnestly to my teacher, “Let her decide what to do herself, all right?”

  “No,” Mr. Yang answered.

  Silence followed.

  About half a minute later, Huang said again, “Okay, Old Yang, take it easy. We’ll talk about this when you’re well.”

  My teacher made no response.

  Hearing footsteps coming toward the door, I leaped aside. The vice principal came out. He nodded at me, meaning I could go in now. “Take good care of Professor Yang, will you?” he said to me.

  “Sure I will.”

  “Good-bye.” Without giving me another look, he walked away. He seemed unhappy and preoccupied.

  I tiptoed into the room. Mr. Yang sat on the bed with both heels tucked under him, his head hanging low and his eyes shut. I sat down and observed him closely. He looked like a sleeping Buddha, as inert as a vegetable, but with both hands cupped over his kneecaps instead of rested palm upward. A moment later he opened his eyes a crack. The look on his face showed he was alert, but why had he pretended to be drowsing just now?

  “He’s gone,” I told him.

  “Who?”

  “Vice Principal Huang.”

  “Who’s he? I don’t know him.”

  Perplexed, I had no idea how to deal with his denial. And anger surged in my chest. Of course he knew Huang. Who else had he been talking with a short while ago? But I kept silent, thinking of the dream I’d just had. Why couldn’t I eat the fish soup, my favorite food? My mouth wasn’t small at all, at least as big as most people’s. As if I could have smelled the delicious soup, I went on sniffing.

  Meimei in fact was not a good cook. She couldn’t even make steamed bread, not knowing how to use yeast and baking soda, let alone a crucian carp soup. But this didn’t bother me. I had promised her that I’d cook most of the time after we married. She said she would wash dishes.

  “Revenge!” Mr. Yang bawled, as though he were playing the part of an official executioner or a rowdy in an old opera. “I shall raise this nine-section whip and thrash your fat hips, pack, pack, pack—I want to taste your blood and flesh. Ah, with full resolve I shall root
out your whole clan like weeds! A debt of lives must be paid with lives!” His shrill voice was getting louder and louder.

  I was totally baffled, not knowing whether he was faking or truly believed he was onstage. Holding my breath, I watched him wriggling as if he were bound by invisible chains. He looked in pain and probably imagined exchanging words and blows with an enemy.

  He chanted ferociously, “I shall eliminate all the vermin of your kind, and shan’t withdraw my troops until the red clouds have covered the entire earth . . .”

  Dumbfounded, I listened. He enacted this militant role for about half an hour. I couldn’t tell why Vice Principal Huang’s visit had disturbed him so much. By no means did it seem that the official had come to press him for the $1,800. Then why did Mr. Yang go berserk like this?

  9

  Two days later Kailing Wang, the woman lecturer in the Foreign Languages Department, came to see Mr. Yang. She brought along a bouquet of red silk roses and a copy of The Good Woman of Szechwan, which had just come out from Tomorrow Press in Shanghai. She said the book was well received and there would be a review in the journal Foreign Drama praising the brisk, sturdy translation. Having no idea what to do with the artificial flowers, I just held them for her as she tried to talk to my teacher.

  She was of medium height and wore a puce dress, which made her appear less plump and set off her full bust. Although her appearance reminded me of Mr. Yang’s words about the peachy breasts, I bridled my wayward thoughts. Actually I very much respected Kailing. Ten years ago her husband, a regimental staff officer, had been killed in a border battle between Chinese and Vietnamese armies. Since then, she had raised their son alone. Today apparently she hadn’t expected to see my teacher in such a wretched condition. She said to me, her voice torn, “He wasn’t like this last week. Why did they tell me on the phone that he was getting better? This is awful!” She kept wringing her hands while her eyes misted up.

  Indeed this afternoon Mr. Yang was too delirious to talk with anybody. Now and again his lips twisted into a puerile grin as if he were a victim of Down syndrome. The book that bore his name as a cotranslator made no special impression on him, and Kailing seemed to him a total stranger. To whatever she said he wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t tell whether he recognized her or not. He grunted and groaned vaguely as if having a migraine, and his upper body shuddered frequently.

  Taking Mr. Yang’s lifeless hand and folding his fingers, Kailing burst into tears. She went on wiping her cheeks with a white handkerchief. Her face at once looked aged, slightly sallow, as if its muscles had lost their elasticity. Her nose was clogged and a little rounded. As she sobbed, her full chin couldn’t stop shaking. Observing her, I wished I could have said something to console her. Then she bent forward to peer into his eyes, which were still blank and rheumy and without any trace of recognition. On his swollen face his eyes appeared thready and his lips parted. I was fighting down the impulse to grab his shoulders and shake him out of this wooden state.

  Kailing remained standing in front of him for more than twenty minutes. Now and again she looked into his eyes, eager to find out whether he still knew her, but he seemed like a senseless retardate. I told her that this was just a bad day and that usually he was much more lively and clearheaded. She nodded without a word.

  At last she let go of his hand. Placing the book near his knee, she said, “Professor Yang, you must get well. I need you. You promised to work with me on Brecht’s poetry.” He made no answer.

  “I’ve done a draft of some of his poems and like them very much,” she added.

  Still he was wordless. She looked at me, her eyes filled with disappointment, while her right thumb was massaging her temple.

  On leaving, she told me to let her know if Mr. Yang needed anything. She said quietly, “When he’s himself again, show him the book. He’ll be pleased.”

  “I’ll do that,” I promised, putting the roses on the bed so as to see her off.

  “I’m sorry to give way to my emotions like this. I’m so upset.” She managed a smile.

  “I understand.”

  “I wish I could’ve brought some fresh flowers. I went to several stores but couldn’t find any.”

  “Don’t worry about that. These last longer.”

  She smiled rather bitterly and took her leave. As she slouched out of the room, I followed her for a few steps, then stopped to watch her shuffle away until she disappeared at the corner of the stairs.

  Whatever her role in Mr. Yang’s life, her visit saddened and touched me. She was a widow about whom there had been a great deal of gossip, yet today, in my presence, she was not ashamed of shedding tears for him, a man she cared about deeply. It was common knowledge that after studying a foreign language for some years, some women tended to become effusive, romantic, and even warmhearted. This must be one of the reasons why the girls in the Foreign Languages Department were usually more attractive than those majoring in other fields. But this didn’t explain my feelings about Kailing. I was moved by her visit because she had brought into this spooky room some human warmth, which continued to affect me after she left.

  Why is The Good Woman of Szechwan so popular these days? The question came to mind again. I couldn’t figure out a definite answer. I had read several articles on this play, none of which said anything illuminating, all in the manner of a biographical introduction. The critics, or buffs, just praised it as a masterpiece, but couldn’t say why. Perhaps because the story was set in China, a place rarely presented in serious Western literature, they had rushed to write about it when Brecht’s works could finally be translated into Chinese after the Cultural Revolution. To me, however, the play seemed inferior to Mother Courage and Her Children and shouldn’t be judged his best drama as they claimed.

  Mr. Yang stirred a little and opened his eyes, which seemed apprehensive, shifting. I was puzzled, wondering why he hadn’t recognized Kailing just now if he was wide awake.

  “Help me, please,” he whispered earnestly.

  “With what?” I asked in surprise.

  “I—I wet my bed.” He averted his face.

  I touched the sheet beneath his thighs. My goodness, he had soiled his pajamas, the quilt, the sheet, and the cotton-padded mattress. The pallet must have been wet too. “Sit tight, I’ll be right back,” I told him, then hurried out to the nurses’ station.

  Hong Jiang, the old woman, happened to be on duty. She came up with me immediately. Together we pulled a rattly gurney loaded with clean bedding and clothing. To my knowledge, this was the first time Mr. Yang had lost control of his bladder, which Nurse Jiang said was common among stroke patients.

  At the sight of us my teacher murmured, “I’m sorry, really sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Don’t feel bad about it,” the nurse told him.

  I helped him climb onto the gurney so that Hong Jiang could change the bedding. It was impossible for us to replace the thick pallet, whose rice straw had an eye-catching blotch in the middle, as big as a large lotus leaf, so the nurse spread a plastic bag over the wet spot, then went about making the bed with the things we had brought—she unrolled the thin mattress, threw the sheet over it, and unfolded the quilt. She did everything expertly.

  Meanwhile, I took off his striped pajamas and flowered shorts. I crumpled them into a ball and wiped his fleshy thighs and backside with it. He reddened and kept his eyes shut all along. He was very cooperative, so without difficulty I helped him put on the fresh shorts I had taken out of the cabinet, in which his underclothes and socks were stored. Next I pulled the clean pajamas on him, then changed his shirt, whose tail was wet too.

  Nurse Jiang drew away the gurney loaded with the soiled bedding and clothing while I was huffing and puffing. Quietly Mr. Yang began sobbing. He lay on his side with his face toward the window. I walked around the bed and said to him, “This is normal. Don’t feel so bad.”

  “I never thought I could become such a nuisance,” he said. “Oh, I should have died.”r />
  “Come on, nobody blames you.”

  “I want you to promise me never to tell anyone about this.”

  “Of course, I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Thank you.” He let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes again.

  I leaned my rear end against the windowsill and observed his jowls twitching and his Adam’s apple jiggling. Once every few seconds he stuck out his tongue to lick his gray mustache.

  10

  I didn’t sleep well that night and felt out of sorts in the morning. My temples were numb as though squeezed by a vise. Mr. Yang’s ravings had distressed me palpably—my roommates complained that these days I was too irascible. Mantao once said, “Jian, you must have been stuffed with gunpowder. Any sparks can start an explosion.” Indeed, my temper often flared. Aside from worrying about my teacher, I was unsure whether I could tackle the exams without thorough preparation.

  It was a cool, sunny morning. Raindrops from a shower the night before still flickered on the tops of the elms and willows on campus. On the playing field a tall man in a red gym suit blew a brass whistle and stretched his limbs. Following him, a group of middle-aged men and women were doing calisthenics. Some undergraduates, books in their hands, strolled about among the lilac and cypress bushes, reviewing lessons and reciting texts in foreign languages. Their voices hummed in the air, which throbbed with the sonorous cry of a cuckoo, whose two-note calls stopped each time just long enough to let the foliage absorb the vibration. Beyond the depths of a distant poplar wood, where the bird was, mist spread billowing like a body of water.

  On my way to the dining hall I ran into Professor Song. He pulled his pipe from his teeth and waved it to stop me, his other hand holding a black canvas bag on which a pair of sea-gulls was in flight. Apparently he had just jogged to school, his gaunt face covered with pinkish patches, a film of sweat oozing from his forehead. Mr. Yang’s stroke had intensified the concern for health among the older faculty in the department, most of whom had begun exercising seriously. Some went swimming in the afternoon; some often played table tennis in the lobby of the classroom building. They would remind one another that health was their main asset and that as long as they lived long enough, eventually they could get promoted to professorship, so there was no need to work hard.