Hard Like Water

by Yan Lianke

  We had already done that thing, we had already scaled the mountain.

  On the mountaintop, everything was peaceful and covered in translucent moonlight. We emerged from the trees and stood on a stone-covered plateau. We sighed, then looked down the mountainside, and only then did we notice that there was a cluster of illuminated houses next to the prison. In the moonlight, those red-tile-roofed houses appeared brown, as though they were but piles of bricks nestled at the base of the mountain. Behind the houses, a faintly visible row of barbed wire along the top of the courtyard walls resembled a frame swaying back and forth. In the rearmost corner of that frame was a row of brick kilns protruding from the ground. It appeared that the first two kilns were in the process of being extinguished, and we could vaguely make out several figures—all convicts, of course—carrying buckets of water to the kilns. The plumes of milky-white smoke emerging from the tops of the kilns became dark green in the moonlight and then quickly dissolved. A couple of li beyond the kilns, a village was sleeping peacefully, as though someone had casually placed it in the middle of this forest. We were fortunate that we hadn’t been thrown in with those convicts and forced to work the kilns. We were, after all, revolutionaries. We were revolutionaries who had successfully brought revolution to rural China and had transformed Chenggang from a backwater feudal village into a new, red revolutionary base. Our revolutionary experience had been disseminated to the entire county or district more than a dozen times, and provincial-level officials had added handwritten “editorial notes” to our experiential documents. Chenggang is, after all, a revolutionary pearl and a beacon of China’s northern countryside, and we are a rare pair of rural revolutionary geniuses. They shouldn’t treat us as ordinary criminals and force us to work the kilns. Perhaps one day they might rejoice that they didn’t treat us fascistically while we were in prison, and regret that they refused to bring us food and water. We had almost been promoted to the positions of county head and director of the women’s federation, and if I had indeed become county head, I could have determined who would be sent to this prison. At that point, the strength of the dictatorship of the proletariat would have been under my command, but in the end, under a bizarre set of circumstances, we ended up entering that same prison ourselves. Does the fact that we were sent to the prison mean that I’ll never have a chance to become county head? Or that Hongmei will never be able to assume the lead position at the women’s federation?

  Current affairs are inherently unpredictable, and it is impossible to foresee the future. In the long river of China’s revolutionary history, how many of our predecessors had been sent to prison? Isn’t their greatness precisely because they spent time in prison? Li Dazhao, Qu Qiubai, together with General Ye Ting (the doors through which people walk in may be closed, though the holes through which dogs crawl out are often open)—their personal histories appeared even brighter and more glorious precisely because they had been sent to prison. It was because they had gone from the revolution to prison, and then from prison back to the revolution, that they were subsequently able to become military and national leaders and serve as exemplary revolutionary models for their successors. Without the experience of being sent to prison during the revolutionary flood, would they have had the positions that they enjoy today?

  We weren’t upset that we had had to spend an entire day and night in prison, nor were we angry at having had to endure observation, hunger, and thirst in that special detention chamber saturated with revolutionary brilliance. Perhaps this episode might obtain new meaning during our future struggles to compensate for whatever losses it had brought. Surely our situation would improve soon, when Secretary Guan would announce our appointments to county head and director of the women’s federation. After our new appointments, would those people in the prison still dare to refuse us food and water? Would they still dare to arrange an eight-diagram configuration in the path leading to the doorway based on the poem “The Long March”? As the moon moved from the northern to the southern sky, the mountainside’s stillness gradually swallowed up everything, reducing the distant wilderness to a dark mass. It became impossible to discern where exactly the irrigated fields ended or the knee-deep grassland began. We could vaguely make out wheat or grass swaying in the breeze, like the rising and falling seascape I had seen while in the army. At that point I was still grasping Hongmei’s hand. Her face was as gray as rain or fog, and her fingers were icy cold. In the end, she was, after all, a female comrade and a revolutionary who suffered from a vulnerability of worrying about gains and losses. I thought that—as a man, as her political leader and her war companion, as a revolutionary with high ambitions, as her exemplary sweetheart and her revolutionary helmsman, and as a political figure with a broad vision—I should support Hongmei and make her realize that having been in prison was not a big deal and that having escaped from there was also nothing to be frightened about. I should convince her that this was just a joke that the revolution was playing on us, and in the end it was all merely a misunderstanding. I should try to convince her that it was as if, in the history of the revolution, the Party had committed a “leftist” or a rightist opportunistic error, but without this “leftist” or rightist opportunist error, would the Party have ended up as great and mature as it is today?

  Similarly, if we didn’t commit any errors and didn’t take any wrong turns in our revolutionary careers, if the revolution never played a joke on us, and we never had any misunderstandings, could we ever become strong and mature? Could we ever accumulate a multitude of diverse revolutionary experiences? Could we, after being exhausted from performing our revolutionary duties, still make the thousands of people attending the meeting we convened burst into tears? Could we make them acknowledge that we are excellent politicians and leaders in rural revolutionary work? I had to console my Xia Hongmei; I had to educate and encourage her. She is my soul and my flesh, my body and my heart, my marrow and my spirit. I grasped her hand even more tightly, gripping her fingers and kneading them in my palms. I said, “What are you thinking?”

  She said, “Nothing.”

  I said, “Have you ever seen the ocean?”

  She said, “No.”

  I said, “Someday, I’ll take you to Qingdao to see the ocean, and I’ll take you to Beijing to see Tiananmen Square.”

  She gazed at my face and said, “Will that day ever come to pass?”

  I looked her in the eye and said, “How could it not?”

  She said, “Aijun, why did we run away? If we are caught, won’t our punishment be doubled?”

  I said, “Do you resent me on account of the fact that, when we just did that thing, it was too quick?”

  She took her hand out of mine and said, “Did we escape from prison merely in order to do that thing?”

  I said, “Of course not. We also need to return home and destroy Cheng Temple and the memorial arch, in order to complete the long-cherished revolutionary wish of our youth. You need to return home and confirm whether or not anyone discovered the tunnel opening. Yes, this is how we deal with our mistakes and fight for leniency, and thereby give ourselves the opportunity to make a new contribution to the revolution. If the tunnel opening is still as tightly sealed as before, then Secretary Guan must have imprisoned us for other reasons, and we can use other methods and attitudes to deal with them.”

  Hongmei became anxious. She looked up at the sky to determine our location, then said, “Even if that is true, then why didn’t we go directly? Why did we stop here to do that thing? What are we going to do if we are unable to make it back before the sun comes up?”

  I said, “First, let me figure out where we are. Do you know whether we are east or west of the county seat? Do you know whether we should head north or south to return to Chenggang?” When I said this, her look of confusion and anxiety faded, whereupon I gazed out over the tops of the trees and saw that in the night sky, about ten or twenty li away, there was a faint light shining down on the earth, and halos periodically appearin
g in the sky. I said, “Does the county seat have any machinery plants or car repair plants?” Hongmei said, “Yes, and it also has a farm machinery factory, but all of these factories have stopped production.” I said, “If there are people pursuing revolution, there will be people promoting production, but the more factories are closed down, the more people will engage in nighttime skirmishes. This is an immutable law of revolution and struggle. Needless to say, the county seat must be over there.” Then I touched a tree to determine which was the smooth side facing the shade and which was the rough side facing the sun, and from this I was able to determine that we were directly north of the county seat and south of the prison. Chenggang, meanwhile, was also located between the prison and the county seat but slightly to the north. In this way, the prison, the county seat, and Chenggang formed an acute triangle, with Chenggang and the prison positioned at either end of the shortest leg of triangle. The geometry I learned in middle school was still imprinted in my brain, and I hadn’t forgotten it while serving in the army. At that point we were on a mountaintop next to the prison, and were on the side closer to home. We could definitely make it to Chenggang and back that night, meaning that by dawn we could be back on our stools in the prison’s detention chamber without anyone realizing we had left.

  Cutting through brambles and thistles to escape from the enemy’s prison,

  and longing for Chenggang as we gaze into the distance.

  This further stimulates our fighting spirit,

  as the Party has entrusted us with limitless hope.

  Relatives and comrades offer sincere words and earnest wishes

  and repeatedly exhort us to push our limits.

  A warm heart warms a person’s chest.

  We must remember to be both bold and cautious.

  We must excel by relying on our bravery and resourcefulness.

  With every word, the Party guarantees victory.

  Mao Zedong Thought will shine forever,

  brave, resourceful, and decisive.

  We see the road, yet it is as if we were blind.

  Despite the countless barriers on Tiger Mountain,

  and despite the fact that the road at the base of the mountain seems endless.

  In carrying out revolution and maintaining our lofty ideals, we will have the morning sun in our hearts.

  In traversing an immense forest and crossing a snow-covered plain, it is necessary to maintain a noble spirit and boundless enthusiasm,

  expressing one’s passion and ideals when facing a mountain chain,

  welcoming the spring to change the world,

  welcoming the dawn to illuminate the cosmos,

  welcoming the nuptial chamber’s flowers and candles to reflect life,

  welcoming new prospects and new developments,

  and writing history in warm blood.

  If our aspirations are unrealized, we vow never to stop

  and instead will wait for the day when we can celebrate together

  and watch as red banners are unfurled around the world.

  I said, “Hongmei, let’s head northeast.”

  She asked, “Are you sure this is the right direction?”

  I replied, “Yes, I’m sure.”

  I took her hand and proceeded northeast along a moonlit path, leaving the prison, the forest, and the county seat behind us.

  Without straying from our intended route, we crossed over a mountain ridge, then continued along the moonlit path to the road to Chenggang. When we reached the main road, we hailed down a tractor hauling coal and rode it for more than ten li. We explained to the driver that we were a married couple who worked in a factory in the county seat, but because my mother-in-law had fallen ill, we had been forced to hurry home without even eating dinner first. The driver was in his forties and was very moved by our story. Not only did he invite us to ride his tractor, he even invited us to eat his rations. He said, “In this day and age, it wouldn’t be unusual for someone to travel more than ten li through the night to see his own mother, but for a son-in-law to leave home without even eating and travel through the night to see his mother-in-law is, indeed, quite rare. The two of you should help yourselves to my food.”

  Class feeling and brotherly love are very moving; sisterly love and class feeling can also be heartrending. We offered the driver our heartfelt thanks as we ate the three steamed buns that he had in his pouch. (One day, when I am appointed county head, I’ll definitely make sure that this driver is appointed to serve as director or deputy director of a machinery factory. I committed his name to memory: his name was Liu Hongli, and he was a member of the Liulin production brigade of the Kunei commune; he had a primary-school education and was a poor peasant.) Because we were able to hitch a ride for more than ten li, we managed to make it back to Chenggang in good time. By this point it was the middle of the night, and Hongmei and I stood in front of the Cheng Brothers memorial arch, gazing out at the sleeping town. We saw the trees and electrical poles lining Front Cheng Street and the dung pits and piles of manure in front of each house. We saw the old millstone in the middle of the street, as well as the second production team’s oxen and haystacks. The moonlight was as clear as water and was equally distributed to each house in the village, to every centimeter of ground, and to every object. The field behind us was full of the sharp, sweet smell of ripe wheat, which wafted over and made us feel a vast sense of sorrow for our revolutionary setbacks. We knew we couldn’t stay here for very long, since we had to be back in the prison before dawn so that we could return to our stools in the detention chamber without anyone noticing. We hoped that if we could make it back early enough, the sentry might be asleep, or perhaps the predawn chill might have made him return to his room, thereby permitting us to crawl back in under the iron door unseen. The revolution has not yet succeeded, and comrades therefore need to continue to struggle. For us, this little time was like finding a handful of wheat when facing an interminable famine, and if we didn’t seize our chance immediately, the consequences would be unthinkable. Hongmei and I stood beneath the memorial arch for a few seconds—just a few seconds—whereupon I proceeded to pee on one of the arch’s support columns, and Hongmei went over and squatted down and peed on the other column. When she returned, we separated.

  She said, “Where should I go to find you?”

  I said, “You should be careful when you arrive at your house. If Tao’er and her aunt are there, you mustn’t disturb them (when Hongmei initially left home, she had entrusted Tao’er to the girl’s aunt). And when you get back, just go to the base of the Cheng Temple courtyard wall. If you don’t see me, then clap three times.”

  She said, “Aren’t you going home to see your mother and children?”

  I said, “There isn’t time. At most you should peek at Tao’er through the window, but you absolutely mustn’t wake her up. Also, remember to bring me some matches.” Hongmei then walked toward that tall tile-roofed house on Front Cheng Street.

  2. Bombarding the Headquarters

  From the memorial arch, I turned into Center Cheng Street and then proceeded straight to the production brigade office. My revolutionary footsteps startled some dogs, who barked a few times, after which everything fell silent again. The village streets were completely empty, and you could even hear the moonlight as it swept over the village streets. I went to the entranceway of the production brigade office and opened both the production brigade’s main door and the door to the warehouse next to one of the production brigade’s bathrooms. This warehouse had two hundred kilos of explosives and detonators, which the county used for irrigation projects and for digging ditches and canals. I took thirty half-kilo packets of gunpowder wrapped in oilpaper, together with three detonators, two blasting fuses, and a new pair of scissors. Then I relatched the warehouse door and the main door to the production brigade office and strode up to Cheng Temple. (The revolutionary cause has no choice but to use violence to expand its base, liberate China, and emancipate the entire human race.)
The musky smell of gunpowder seeped into my nostrils, filling me with revolutionary fighting spirit. My heart was pounding, and my palms were drenched in sweat. In order to calm myself down, I wanted to sing the line Through the forest and over the snowy plain, I maintain an enthusiastic spirit, from Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy, or Zhao Yonggang’s verse from Fighting in the Plains:

  For the past few days, the Japanese invaders and I have been circling around the plains

  and upon being transferred to the stronghold, I felt like a fish entering the sea

  The Japanese, Wang Jingwei, and Chiang Kai-shek colluded and were wildly arrogant

  The villagers were traumatized by fires and flooding

  I could hear my family sleeping peacefully inside

  I yearned to see them but was afraid I might wake up my aunt

  at that instant, the People’s safety and well-being were of my greatest concern

  to the point that I was unaware of the thunderclouds passing over the star-filled sky.

  As I was recalling this verse, I felt as though it had been composed just for me, and if I slightly modified the lyrics they would express perfectly what was on my mind: