by Ha Jin
Secretary Peng was also at the memorial service. I talked with her briefly and found out that she had seen my application for the position at the Policy Office, but the crematorium wasn’t a proper place to talk about such a matter, since I was obligated to keep Meimei and her mother company throughout the memorial service.
The day after the funeral, Meimei and I had a talk. We met in her father’s office, whose single window faced a huge weeping willow. I left the door ajar so that nobody could accuse me of using Mr. Yang’s office for smooching. Already there were grumbles in the department about my access to this office. In fact I seldom entered it these days. Some faculty members must have coveted this room, which was more spacious than theirs, and they were afraid I might occupy it permanently.
The heat coming in from the outside was palpable. Through the screen window the thrumming of cicadas could be heard, and from time to time a droning bee bumped into the iron mesh with a tiny thud. After Mr. Yang was hospitalized, I had kept everything in place here. His ink bottle, Plexiglas paperweight, tobacco box, and porcelain teacup all remained in their original places on his desk. On the wall, in the very place once occupied by Weiya’s painting of the smiley monk eating figs, now hung a large framed photo, in which Mr. Yang, wearing a huge red paper flower on his chest, was accepting an award for his scholarly accomplishment from the director of the Provincial Education Department. The prize was a bulky dictionary, Origins of Words, and a blue satin case containing a Hero fountain pen. On either side of the picture were two certificates pasted to the wall, commending his teaching. He had been elected an outstanding teacher four times.
Meimei and I sat face to face, with the desk between us. I tried to relax some, my heels resting on the crosspiece under the table. She wore a honey-colored dress with a bateau neck. A pair of sunglasses clasped the front of her thick hair. Despite her nonchalant manner, she looked exhausted, not having slept well several nights in a row. Her cheeks had lost their glow and her face was a bit sickly. She must have worked very hard lately; even her eyes looked tired, not as vivid as before. The moment she received the telegram, she had rushed to the train station and caught an express back to Shanning. By then she had finished her exams, in which she believed she had done well. Apparently she was still upset about my decision to withdraw from the exams, which would be given in two days.
“It’s not too late yet, Jian,” she said in her contralto voice. “Please take them, just for me.”
I swallowed, but managed to reply, “Forgive me, Meimei, I’ve made up my mind. Don’t try to bring me around.” I hated to say that. This was the first time I had ever refused to listen to her.
“I don’t understand why you changed your mind all of a sudden,” she said vexedly, pursing her lips.
“It’s hard to explain in a few words. I spent weeks at your father’s bedside and he made me think a lot. Let me just say I don’t want to live an intellectual’s life anymore.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she insisted, her upturned nose quivering, which usually foreshadowed a rage.
“It’s a waste of life. Every intellectual is a clerk in our country.”
“That’s malicious! How come you’ve become such a crude cynic?”
“Your father told me that.”
“He taught you many things, why have you forgotten them all except this spiteful idea? He must’ve said that when he wasn’t in his right mind.”
“But that’s the most truthful thing he ever said.”
She looked me straight in the face, her large eyes full of doubts, which gradually turned into annoyance. Her long eyelashes flickered. “So you definitely won’t come to Beijing?” she asked deliberately.
“Not as a student.”
“Can you come in another way?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“I’ve written to Ying Peng and informed her that I want to work in the Policy Office at the Provincial Administration.”
“You mean to be an official?” she said in disbelief.
“Yes, a real clerk.”
“You have betrayed my father.”
Surprised, I raised my voice. “You don’t understand your father at all. You don’t know how miserably he suffered his whole life. He wanted to be an official too, but he didn’t have an—”
“Don’t blaspheme my father!”
I thought of telling her about the absurd letter of recommendation and the scholarship her father had promised Secretary Peng, but I bit my tongue. Then it dawned on me that Mr. Yang’s desire to become a scholar-official might not have originated only from empleomania. Driven to despair, he too must have thought of officialdom as the only possible way to live a life different from a futile intellectual’s. In other words, if in my place, he would have made the same choice. Though struck by this realization, I didn’t know how to explain it to Meimei. All I could say was “Believe me, you really don’t understand your father.”
“I’m his daughter. At least I know what kind of man he’d like to have had as his son-in-law.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can figure it out by yourself.”
“So I’m disqualified?” My heart twinged, but I kept calm and forced a smile.
“What else can I say?” she replied.
“Why?”
“Because you’re too greedy and don’t know your place in the world.”
“What is my place?”
“My father taught you to be a scholar in poetics so that you could go to Beijing and study there. Also, in that way we could be together. If he were alive, he would never allow you to get involved in politics.”
“But he told me not to be a scholar before he died. He told me to quit studying books. He even said I’d be better off growing millet.”
“That’s all rubbish. He couldn’t have meant what he said.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You ought to look at his entire life for an answer. Didn’t he say he’d be happy if we got married and settled down in Beijing? Tell me, what kind of life is better than a scholar’s? It can be peaceful, rewarding, detached, and even nurturing. I don’t believe that my father, a disinterested man, ever regretted having lived such a life. If I were you, it would be my only choice.”
“You have no idea how awful and wretched your father’s life actually was! You don’t know how crazily he ranted during his last days!”
“Don’t disturb the dead! Let him rest in peace.”
“Believe it or not, a scholar’s life is the last thing I want.”
“You know what’s wrong with you?”
“What?”
She said, with flushed cheeks, “You’re hungry for power and greedy for material comforts. That’s why you want to become an official like Banping, to get rich by taking bribes. I never thought you had such a peasant’s narrow outlook too.”
“That’s not fair! If I craved material comforts, I would go to Beijing where living conditions are better than elsewhere. I just want to live a useful life.”
“Tell me, what is a useful life?”
“Not to be a piece of meat on the chopping board for others to cut. No, let me put it this way: I want to take my fate in my own hands, and when I die, I want to end with the feeling of content and fulfillment. In other words, I don’t want to feel that my life should have been used otherwise.”
“You’re silly if not megalomaniac. Even Hamlet, a prince, cannot control his own fate. Who ever can?”
“You don’t understand. I mean to make my own choices in life.”
“You always have your choices.”
“All right, let me just say I want to be a knife instead of a piece of meat.”
“You’re crazy, you want to hurt others?”
“No, I want to live an active life. You will understand what I mean someday.”
She gave a wry smile, her nose wrinkled. “What makes you think there’s still a future tense for us?
”
My heart shrank in pain, but I managed to say, “Meimei, you know how much I love you.”
“Love alone is not enough.” She was biting the left corner of her mouth, her eyes dimmed.
“What else do you want?”
“I want to make my life in Beijing. How can you join me there if you give up this only opportunity?”
I couldn’t answer.
She got to her feet and bent down to pull up her nylon anklets. “You still have a day to decide whether you’ll take the exams,” she said without looking at me.
“That’s out of the question.”
“All right then, let’s stop here. Good luck with your official career.” She stepped toward the door and held its handle. She seemed to be hesitating whether to walk out. I noticed that she had gained some weight, probably six or seven pounds, but she was still slim with a thin waist and a straight back.
Before I could stand up, she spun around and took two steps toward me. She said almost furiously, “I know why you’ve given up.”
“Why?”
“Because there’re all kinds of talents in the capital, and you’re afraid to compete with others in your field. You’re such a coward that you don’t have the guts to go to Beijing!”
Gagging, I started to cough, hunching over the desk with my hand rubbing my chest. I wanted to yell at her to defend myself, but couldn’t get a word out. She stared at me for a few seconds, then walked out the door.
“Wait, stay a while, Meimei!” I brought out finally. No response came from the corridor.
I lurched to my feet, biting back the cry that was fighting its way through my cramped throat. The sound of her footsteps faded away, then vanished. I flopped down on the chair and buried my face in my arms on the glass desktop.
Before she returned from Beijing, I had planned to make love to her, assuming that our intimacy could help me persuade her or at least induce her to see my view. I even bought a packet of “extra-sensitive” condoms. But once she was back, the ambience of mourning prevented me from getting intimate with her. I dared not even sneak a kiss when we were with others. I only managed to squeeze her hand a few times and pat her behind twice after the memorial service. Besides fear and propriety, I simply couldn’t get hold of her—she was never home.
Finally I realized that she had just issued me an ultimatum. I felt wounded. She had changed, become colder or more rational than before, though I was unsure whether the change had stemmed from her heart or was a mere pose she had struck to deal with me. What upset me more was that she wouldn’t even consider my position at all. Whatever I said had seemed to make no sense to her. Worst of all, her word coward stung me to the heart.
32
Seeing me, Ying Peng said, “You did a fabulous job with the investigation letter, Jian. Banping owes you a dinner now. I’ll let him know about your help after he joins the Party.” She patted her hair and apparently remembered something. “Oh yes, I want to talk to you.”
I knew this was about my new decision, so I broached the topic indirectly. “Secretary Peng, I have changed my mind about the exams. I’ve decided not to take them.”
“Are you sure?” Her face glowed so happily that the large, hairy mole on her chin seemed mobile.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“All right. In that case I’m going to call the Graduate School to withdraw your application. But I have to tell you that you can’t work at the Policy Office.”
“Why?” I was astounded.
“Let me be candid about this, Jian. The Policy Office wants a Party member for that position, because they have access to lots of classified documents. At least you must be a prospective Party member, like Banping, for them to consider you for that job.”
I was stupefied and for a while couldn’t say a word. Three weeks ago the office hadn’t required Party membership for the position at all; why such a new restriction? It must be Ying Peng herself who had brought about the change.
“I’m sorry, Jian,” she went on. “If only I could be more helpful. You’ve never applied for Party membership. It’s impossible to consider you for that job even if you turn in your application now.” Despite her regret, she seemed unable to contain her happiness. Even her voice had grown crisp.
I swung around and staggered out of the office, my head reeling. The instant I closed the door, I overheard her pick up the phone and call the Graduate School to cancel my name as an examinee. Never had I imagined that the most crucial decision in my life was based on a shaky assumption, on a mirage. What a swellheaded fool I was! Why had I never doubted the feasibility of changing myself from a piece of meat into “a knife”? And why was I never seriously concerned about all the odds against my entering officialdom if I didn’t belong to the Party? Meimei was right—I hadn’t known my place in this world.
For a whole day I couldn’t do anything. My chest was so full that I felt as if I were suffocating; I couldn’t stop hiccuping, filled with gas. Should I take the exams tomorrow? I didn’t feel like it. Besides, Ying Peng had already withdrawn my name. If I wanted to reenter, I would have to get her approval first, which she was unlikely to give. Why was she so eager and so glad to have my candidacy revoked? I wished I had known.
Having heartburn, I didn’t eat lunch. Yet however hard I castigated myself for my foolhardiness, I still believed in living a life different from Mr. Yang’s. I would never go to Beijing through Ph.D. candidacy. At the same time I felt trapped, all at sea about what to do. If only I could have made up with Meimei. I wouldn’t mind admitting to her that I had been a high-minded fool. I needed her and mustn’t lose her. In my heart there was the burning desire to win her back, though I was uncertain what I could offer her so that we could be reconciled.
After dinner I went to the Yangs’ to look for Meimei. Her mother answered the door. Mrs. Yang looked tired, a little unkempt. Yet her face lit up as she talked to me. She wore a yellow shirt and a maroon skirt, her bare feet in a pair of mauve sponge-rubber slippers. She didn’t seem very grief-stricken over her husband’s death.
After she poured me a cup of tea, I asked her if Meimei was in. She looked surprised and said, “You didn’t see her today?”
“No.”
“I thought she was with you.”
“The last time I saw her was yesterday afternoon.”
“Really? She went out this morning and won’t come back till midnight, she told me.”
Something must have gone awry. With whom is Meimei spending her time today? I wondered. Does she have some friends in town?
A pang suddenly seized my heart and my nose turned stuffy, but I took hold of myself. I told Mrs. Yang that there was some friction between Meimei and me, mainly caused by my decision not to take the exams. Without comment she listened to me explaining my thoughts; now and again her eyes flashed at me sympathetically. She didn’t seem to disapprove of my decision, though I was unsure how much she understood of my reasons.
After I was done talking, for a moment the room fell into silence. I remembered something that had weighed on my mind for a long time. Regardless of propriety, I asked her, “Do you know a woman by the name of Lifen?”
Her eyes expanded. “What about her?”
“Mr. Yang often mentioned her when he was delirious.” I tried to keep calm, though my heart was thumping.
“I’ve never met her and don’t know if she’s dead or alive,” she said in a level voice.
“Mr. Yang talked a lot about her, saying that finally he met her again.”
“That’s just his fantasy. He didn’t know her whereabouts either, I’m positive about that.”
Misery overcame me. I grew quiet, uncertain whether I should talk more about this unpleasant subject, which I shouldn’t have brought up with her.
“Love is always a unilateral effort, ridiculous,” she said. “That woman dumped him like a used dishrag, but he couldn’t forget her all his life. I’m sure he loved her more than me. I was hopeless against her, my invis
ible enemy, and I couldn’t find a way to win his heart, no matter how hard I tried.” She grimaced, her chin wrinkled. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
I didn’t say a word as I remembered how harshly Mr. Yang had rebuked her in his dreams.
She sighed. “I only hope Meimei won’t repeat my mistake. What a hell a marriage can be.”
“I love her,” I said.
“I’ve known that from the very beginning.”
Silence set in again. I wondered if I should leave.
Then she asked, “Do you want to see your teacher’s ash box? I brought it back yesterday evening.”
“Yes,” I answered, amazed by her question. She was indeed a tough woman, not distraught by what I had just told her. She must have been hardened to thoughts of her loveless marriage.
I got up and followed her into my teacher’s study, which was also their bedroom. On the wall hung a pair of calligraphic scrolls, one of which said Learn with zest and the other Teach without fatigue. The room smelled fusty, with a tang of tobacco. On the tiny desk, whose top was three by two feet, sat a cinerary casket with gilt corners and brass clasps. On the front of the box was a large photo of Mr. Yang wearing a woolen pullover, his hair combed tidily and less gray; his eyes bulged slightly, as though he had just cried; the wrinkles on his jaw looked so tight that they seemed about to vibrate. In this picture I could feel his determination to hold together his life and his world, though he might already have been verging on a breakdown.
Tears came to my eyes; I tried but couldn’t force them back. I sat down on his chair and buried my face in my arms. Despite my shame of tears, I went on weeping noiselessly as Mrs. Yang put her palm on my head and patted it gently. “All I want is not to live a life like his,” I said.